JANE   WELSH    CAELYLE. 
From  a  miniature  in  possession  of  J.  A.  Froude,  Esq. 


LETTEES  AND  MEMOEIALS 


OF 


\ 


JAI^E  l^ELSH  UAKJ 


PKEPAKED  For.  PTTBI.TCATTOK 


BT 


THOMAo    ^.^.xx.'^  ..E 


Edited  mr 

YTHONY    FROUi< 


■'.V  OfTE 


ORK 

K   &   BRO  AKKLLN 


LETTEES  AND  MEMOEIALS 


OF 


Jane  Welsh  Carlyle 


PKEPAKED  FOR  PUBLICATION 
BY 

THOMAS    CARLYLE 


Edited  by 

JAMES     ANTHONY    FEOUDE 


TWO    VOLUMES  IN  ONE 

Vol.  I 


NEW  YOEK 
HARPER   &   BROTHERS,   FRANKLIN    SQUARE 

1883 


stereotyped  and  Printed  by  the  Chas.  M.  Green  Printing  Company. 


PEEFACE. 


The  Letters  which  form  these  volumes  were  placed^  in  my 
hands  by  Mr.  Carlyle  in  1871.  They  are  annotated  throughout 
by  himself.  The  few  additional  observations  occasionally  required 
are  marked  with  my  initials. 

I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  give  an  introductory  narrative 
of  Mrs.  Carlyle's  previous  history,  the  whole  of  it  being  already 
related  in  my  account  of  the  '  first  forty  years '  of  her  husband's 
life.  To  this  I  must  ask  the  reader  who  wishes  for  information  to 
be  so  good  as  to  refer. 

Mr.  Carlyle  did  not  order  the  publication  of  these  Letters,  though 
he  anxiously  desired  it.  He  left  the  decision  to  Mr.  Forster,  Mr. 
John  Carlyle,  and  myself.  Mr.  Forster  and  Mr.  John  Carlyle 
having  both  died  in  Mr.  Carlyle's  lifetime,  the  responsibility  fell 
entirely  upon  me.  Mr.  Carlyle  asked  me,  a  few  months  before 
his  end,  what  I  meant  to  do.  I  told  him  that,  when  the  '  Reminis- 
cences '  had  been  published.  I  had  decided  that  the  Letters  might 
and  should  be  published  also. 

Mr.  Carlyle  requested  iu  his  will  that  my  judgment  in  the  mat- 
ter should  be  accepted  as  his  own. 

J.  A.  FROUDE. 

5  Onslow  Gardens: 

February  28,  1883. 


21JJ65G 


LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS 

OF 

JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE. 


LETTER  I. 


'TtTESDAT,  June  10,  1834,'  it  appears,  was  the  date  of  our  alighting, 
amid  heaped  furniture,  in  this  house,  where  we  were  to  continue 
for  life.  I  well  remember  bits  of  the  drive  from  Ampton  Street; 
what  damp-clouded  kind  of  slcy  it  was;  how,  in  crossing  Belgrave 
Square,  Chko,  her  little  canary-bird,  whom  she  had  brought  from 
Craigenputtock  in  her  lap,  burst  out  into  singing,  which  we  all 
('Bessy  Barnet,'our  romantic  maid,  sat  with  iis  in  the  oldhackney- 
coach)  strove  to  accept  as  a  promising  omen.  The  business  of  sort- 
ing and  settling,  with  two  or  three  good  carpenters,  &c.,  already 
on  the  ground,  was  at  once  gone  into,  with  boundless  alacrity,  and 
(under  such  management  as  hers)  went  on  at  a  mighty  rate;  even 
the  three  or  four  days  of  quasi  camp  life,  or  gypsy  life,  had  a  kind 
of  gay  charm  to  us;  and  hour  by  hour  we  saw  tlie  confusion  abat- 
ing, growing  into  victorious  order.  Leigh  Hunt  was  continually 
sending  us  notes;  most  probablj"  would  in  person  step  across  be- 
fore bedtime,  and  give  us  an  hour  of  the  prettiest  melodious  dis- 
course. In  about  a  week  (it  seems  to  me)  all  was  swept  and  gar- 
nislied,  fairly  habitable;  and  continued  incessantly  to  get  itself  pol- 
ished, civilised,  and  beautified  to  a  degree  that  surprised  one.  I 
liave  elsewhere  alluded  to  all  that,  and  to  my  little  Jeannie's  conduct 
of  it:  heroic,  lovelj',  pathetic,  mournfully  beautiful,  as  in  the  light 
of  eternity,  that  little  scene  of  time  now  looks  to  me.  From  birth 
upwards  she  had  lived  in  opulence;  and  now,  for  my  sake,  had  he- 
come  poor — so  nobly  poor.  Truly,  her  pretty  little  brag  (in  this 
letter)  was  well  founded.  No  such  houses,  for  beautiful  thrift,  quiet, 
spontaneous,  nay,  as  it  were,  unconscious — minimum  of  money  rec- 
onciled to  human  comfort  and  human  dignity — have  I  anywhere 
looked  upon  whore  I  have  been. 

From  the  first,  or  nearly  so,  I  had  resolved  upon  the  'French 
Revolution,'  ai:d  was  reading,  studj'ing,  ransacking  the  Museum 
(to  little  purpose)  with  all  my  might.  Country  health  was  still 
about  me;  heart  and  strength  still  fearless  of  any  toil.  The  weather 
was  very  hot;  defying  it  (in  hard,  almost  briniless  hat,  which 
was  ohhUfjato  in  that  time  of  slavery)  did  sometimes  throw  me  into 
colic;  the  Museum  collection  of  'French  Pamphlets,'  the  complet- 
est  of  its  sort  in  the  world,  did,  after  six  weeks  of  baffled  wrestle, 
L-1 


2  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

prove  inaccessible  to  me;  and  I  had  to  leave  them  there — so  strong 
Wds  Chaos  and  Co.  in  that  direction.  Happily,  John  Mill  had  come 
to  my  aid,  and  the  Paris  'Histoire  Parlementaire '  began  to  appear. 
Mill  had  himself  great  knowledge  of  the  subject.  He  sent  me 
down  all  his  own  books  on  the  subject  (almost  a  cartload),  and  was 
generously  profuse  and  unwearied  in  every  kind  of  furtherance.  He 
had  taken  a  great  attachment  to  me  (which  lasted  about  ten  years, 
and  then  suddenly  ended,  I  never  knew  how);  an  altogether  clear, 
logical,  honest,  amicable,  affectionate  young  man,  and  respected  as 
such  here,  though  sometimes  felt  to  be  rather  colourless,  even  aque- 
ous— no  religion  in  almost  any  form  traceable  in  him.  He  was 
among  our  chief  visitors  and  social  elements  at  that  time.  Came 
to  us  in  the  evenings  once  or  twice  a  week ;  walked  with  me  on  Sun- 
days, &c. ;  with  a  great  deal  of  discourse  not  worthless  to  me  in  its 
kind.  Still  prettier  were  Leigh  Hunt's  little  nights  with  us;  fig- 
ure and  bearing  of  the  man,  of  a  perfectly  graceful,  spontaneously 
original,  dignified  and  attractive  kind.  Considerable  sense  of  hu- 
mour in  him;  a  very  pretty  little  laugh,  sincere  and  cordial  always; 
many  tricksy  turns  of  witty  insight,  of  intellect,  of  phrase;  counte- 
nance, tone  and  eyes  well  seconding;  his  voice,  in  the  finale  of  it, 
had  a  kind  of  musical  warble  ('chirrwe  vernacularly  called  it) 
which  reminded  one  of  singing-birds.  He  came  always  rather  scru- 
pulousl  J^  though  most  simply  and  modestly,  dressed.  '  Kind  of  Talk- 
ing Nightingale,'  we  privately  called  him — name  first  due  to  her. 
He  enjoyed  much,  and  with  a  kind  of  chivalrous  silence  and  respect, 
her  Scotch  tunes  on  the  piano,  most  of  which  he  knew  already,  and 
their  Burns  or  other  accompaniment:  this  was  commonly  enough 
the  wind-up  of  our  evening;  'supper'  being  ordered  (uniformly 
'  porridge '  of  Scotch  oatmeal),  most  likely  the  piano,  on  some  hint, 
would  be  opened,  and  continue  till  the  'porridge'  came — a  tiny 
basin  of  which  Hunt  always  took,  and  ate  with  a  teaspoon,  to  sugar, 
and  many  praises  of  the  excellent  frugal  and  noble  article.  It  seems 
to  me,  in  our  long,  dim-lighted,  perfectly  neat  and  quaint  room, 
these  'evening  parties'  of  three  were  altogether  human  and  beau- 
tiful; perhaps  the  best  I  anywhere  had  before  or  since!  Allan 
Cunningham  occasionally  walked  down;  pleasant  enough  to  talk 
with — though  the  topic  was  sure  to  be  Nithsdale  (mainly  Nithsdale 
fun),  and  nothing  else.  Mrs.  Austin,  Mrs.  BuUer,  Darwin,  Wedg- 
wood, &c.,  &c.  (of  this  or  shortly  posterior  dates),  I  do  not  men- 
tion. I  was  busy;  she  still  more  hopefully  and  gaily  so;  and  in 
what  is  called  'society,'  or  London  interests  for  us,  there  was  no 
lack. — Of  all  which,  these  'Letters,'  accidental  waifs  among  such 
multitudes  as  have  carelessly  perished,  are  now  the  only  record. 

I  perfectly  recollect  the  day  this  following  letter  describes,  though 
I  could  not  have  given  the  date,  even  by  year.  '  Macqueen  and 
Thomson'  were  two  big  graziers  of  respectabilitj%  Macqueen  a  na- 
tive of  Craigenputtock,  Thomson,  from  near  Annan,  had  been  a 
schoolfellow  of  mine.  They  had  called  here  without  very  specific 
errand;  and  I  confess  what  the  letter  intimates  (of  my  silent  wish 
to  have  evaded  such  interruption,  &c.,  &c.)  is  the  exact  truth. 

'  Traiked '  means  perished,  contemptuous  term,  applied  to  cattle, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  8 

«fec.  '  Traik '  =  German  '  Dreck.'  To  '  hankrape '  is  to  '  bankrupt ' 
(used  as  a  verb  passive).  '  And  tlien  he  bankrapit,  and  geed  out  o' 
siciit:'  a  phrase  of  my  father's  in  the  little  sketches  of  Annandale 
biography  he  would  sometimes  give  me.  During  two  wholly  wet 
(lays,  on  my  last  visit  to  Scotsbrig  in  1830,  he  gave  me  a  whole 
se  ies  of  such ;  clearest  brief  portraiture  and  life-history  of  all  the 
iioleworthy,  vanished  figures  whom  I  had  known  by  look  onl}',  and 
now  wished  to  understand.  Such  a  set  of  Scliildernngen  (human 
delineations  of  human  life),  so  admirably  brief,  luminous,  true,  and 
man-like,  as  I  never  had  before  or  since.  I  have  heard  Words- 
worth, somewhat  on  similar  terms  (twice  over  had  him  in  a  corner 
engaged  on  this  topic,  which  was  his  ^esO;  but  even  Wordsworth 
was  inferior. — T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Sept.  1, 1834. 

My  dear  Mother, — Could  I  have  supposed  it  possible  that  any 
mortal  was  so  stupid  as  not  to  feel  disappointed  in  receiving  a  let- 
ter from  me.  instead  of  my  husband,  I  should  have  written  to  you 
very  long  ago.  But  while  this  humility  becomes  me,  it  is  also  my 
duty  (too  long  neglected)  to  send  a  little  adjunct  to  my  husband's 
letter,  just  to  assure  you  '  with  my  own  hand '  that  I  continue  to 
love  you  amidst  the  hubbub  of  this  '  noble  city'  '  just  the  same  as 
in  the  quiet  of  Craigenputtock,  and  to  cherish  a  grateful  recollec- 
tion of  your  many  kindnesses  to  me;  especially  of  that  magnani- 
mous purpose  to  '  sit  at  my  bedside'  through  the  night  preceding 
my  departure,  'that  I  might  be  sure  to  sleep!'  I  certainly  shall 
never  forget  that  night  and  the  several  preceding  and  following; 
but  for  the  kindness  and  helpfulness  shown  me  on  all  hands,  I 
must  have  traiked,  one  would  suppose.  I  had  every  reason  to  be 
thankful  then  to  Providence  and  my  friends,  and  have  had  the 
same  reason  since. 

All  things,  since  we  came  here,  have  gone  more  smoothly  with  us 
than  I  at  all  anticipated.  Our  little  household  has  been  set  up  again 
at  a  quite  moderate  expense  of  money  and  trouble ;  wherein  I  cannot 
help  thinking,  with  a  cluistened  vanity,  that  the  superior  shiftiness  and 
thriftiness  of  the  Scotch  character  has  strikingly  manifested  itself. 
The  English  women  turn  up  the  whites  of  their  eyes,  and  call  on 
the  '  good  heavens '  at  the  bare  idea  of  enterprises  which  seem  to 
me  in  the  most  ordinary  course  of  human  affairs.  I  told  Mrs. 
Hunt,  one  day,  I  had  been  very  busy  painting.  '  What? '  she 
asked,  'is  it  a  portrait? '     '  Oh!  no,'  I  told  her,  '  something  of  more 

'  Phrase  of  Basil  Montague's. 


4  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

importance — a  large  wardrobe.'    She  could  not  imagine,  she  said, 
'  how  I  could  have  patience  for  such  things? '     And  so,  having  no 
patience  for  them  herself,  what  is  the  result?     She  is  every  other 
day  reduced  to  borrow  my  tumblers,  my  teacups;  even  a  cupful 
of  porridge,  a  few  spoonfuls  of  tea,  are  begged  of  me,  because 
'  Missus  has  got  company,  and  happens  to  be  out  of  the  article ; ' 
in  plain  unadorned  English,  because  'missus'  is  the  most  wretched 
of  managers,  and  is  often  at  the  point  of  having  not  a  copper  in  her 
purse.     To  see  how  they  live  and  waste  here,  it  is  a  wonder  the 
whole  city  does  not  '  bankrape,  and  go  out  o'  sicht '  ;— flinging 
platefuls  of  what  they  are  pleased  to  denominate  '  crusts '  (that  is 
what  I  consider  all  the  best  of  the  bread)  into  the  ashpits!    I  often 
say,  with  honest  self -congratulation,  '  In  Scotland  we  have  no  such 
thing  as  "crusts." '     On  the  whole,  though  the  English  ladies  seem 
to  have  their  wits  more  at  their  finger-ends,  aud  have  a  great  advan- 
tage over  me  in  that  respect,  1  never  cease  to  be  glad  that  I  was 
born  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tweed,  and  that  those  who  are  nearest 
and  dearest  to  me  are  Scotch. 

I  must  tell  you  what  Carlyle  will  not  tell  of  himself— that  he  is 
rapidly  mending  of  his  Craigeuputtock  gloom  and  acerbity.  He  is 
really  at  iimes  a  tolerably  social  character,  and  seems  to  be  regarded 
with  a  feeling  of  mhigled  terror  and  love  in  all  companies;  which  I 
should  expect  the  dilTusion  of  Teufelsdrockh  will  tend  to  increase. 
I  have  just  been  called  away  to  John  Macqueen,  who  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  Jack  Thomson,  of  Annan,  whom  I  received  in  my 
choicest  mood,  to  make  amends  for  Carlyle's  unreadiness — who  was 
positively  going  to  let  him  leave  the  door  without  asking  him  in;  a 
neglect  which  he  would  have  reproached  himself  with  after. 

My  love  to  all.  Tell  my  kind  Mary  to  write  to  me;  she  is  the 
only  one  that  ever  does. 

Your  affectionate 

JAI^[E  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  3. 

Mournfully  beautiful  is  this  letter  to  me;  a  clear  little  house- 
hold light  shining,  pure  and  brilliant,  in  the  dark  obstructive  places 
of  the  past! 

The  '  two  East  Lothian  friends '  are  George  Rennie,  then  sculp- 
tor, and  his  pretty  sister,  Mrs.  Manderston,  wife  of  an  ex-Indian 
ship  captain. 

'  Eliza  Miles '  and  '  the  Mileses '  are  the  good  people  in  Ampton 
Street  with  whom  we  lodged;  Eliza,   their  daughter,  felt  quite 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  6 

captivated  with  my  Jane,  and  seems  to  have  vowed  eternal  loyalty 
to  her  almost  at  iirst  sight;  was  for  coming  to  be  our  servant  at 
Craigenputtock  (actually  wrote  proposing  it  then — a  most  tempting 
offer  to  us,  had  not  the  rough  element  and  the  delicate  aspirant 
been,  evidently  irreconcilable!).  She  continued  to  visit  us  here, 
at  modest  intervals;  wrote  me,  after  my  calamity  befel,  the  one 
letter  of  condolence  I  could  completely  read  (still  extant,  and 
almost  worth  adjoining  here),  she  was  a  very  pretty  and,  to  us,  in- 
teresting specimen  of  the  London  maiden  of  the  middle  classes; 
refined,  polite,  pious,  clever  both  of  hand  and  mind;  no  gentle- 
woman could  have  a  more  upright,  modest,  affectionate  and  un- 
consciously high  demeanour.  Her  father  had  long  been  in  prosper- 
ous upholsterer  business  {'Miles  and  Edwards,'  as  we  sometimes 
heard),  but  tlie  firm  had  latterly  gone  awry,  and  poor  Miles  now 
went  about  as  a  'traveller'  (showing  specimens,  &c  ),  where  he 
had  formerly  been  one  of  the  commanders-in-chief.  He  was  a 
very  good-natured,  respectable  man;  quietly  much  sympathised 
with  in  his  own  house.  Eliza,  with  her  devout  temper,  had  been 
drawn  to  Edward  Irving;  went  daily,  alone  of  her  family,  to  his 
chapel,  in  those  years  1831-2,  and  was  to  the  last  one  of  his  most 
reverent  disciples.  She  did,  in  her  soft  loyal  way,  right  well  in 
the  world;  married  poorly  enough,  but  wisely,  ^nd  is  still  living, 
a  now  rich  man's  wife,  and  the  mother  of  prosperous  sons  and 
daughters. 

'  Buller's  Radical  meeting,'  had  one  an  old  newspaper,  would 
give  us  an  exact  date:  it  was  the  meeting,  privately  got  up  by  C. 
Buller,  but  ostensibly  managed  \)j  others,  which  assembled  itself 
largely  and  with  emphasis  in  the  London  Tavern,  to  say  what  it 
thought  on  the  first  reappearance  of  Peel  and  Co.  after  the  Re- 
form Bill,  'first  Peel  Ministry,'  which  lasted  only  a  short  time.  I 
duly  attended  the  meeting  (never  another  in  my  life);  and  remem- 
bered it  well.  Had  some  interest,  not  much.  The  2,000  human 
figures,  wedged  in  the  huge  room  into  one  dark  mass,  were  singu- 
lar to  look  down  upon,  singular  to  hear  their  united  voice,  coming 
clearly  as  from  one  heart;  their  fiery  'Yes,'  their  sternly  bellow- 
ing 'No.'  (Camille  Desmoulius  in  the  Palais-Royal  Gardens,  not 
long  afterwards!')  I  could  notice,  too,  what  new  laics  there  were 
of  speaking  to  such  a  mass;  no  matter  how  inten.sely  consentaneous 
your  2,000  were,  and  how  much  you  agreed  with  every  one  of 
them;  you  must  likewise  becjin  where  they  began,  follow  pretty 
exactly  their  sequence  of  thoughts,  or  thej  lost  sight  of  your  inten 
tion;  and,  for  noise  of  contradiction  to  you  and  to  one  another, 
you  could  not  be  heard  at  all.  That  was  new  to  me,  that  second 
thing;  and  little  or  nothing  else  was.  In  the  speeches  I  had  no 
interest,  except  a  phenomenal;  indeed,  had  to  disagree  through- 
out, more  or  less  with  every  part  of  them.  Roebuck  knew  the  art 
best;  kept  the  2,000  in  constant  reverberation,  more  and  more  rap- 
turous, by  his  adroitly  correct  series  of  commonplaces,  John  Craw- 
furd,  much  more  original,  lost  the  seiies,  and  had  to  sit  down  again 

>  'Afterwards:'  when  Carlyle  came  to  write  about  Camille  in  the  jFVencft 
RiVoLution.—J.  A.  F. 


t  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

unheard — ignominlously  uulieard.  Ohe  jam  satis  est.  I  walked 
briskly  home,  much  musing;  found  her  waiting,  eager  enough  for 
any  news  I  had. — T.  C. 


To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  End  of  November  [Nov.  21],  1834. » 

My  dear  Mother, — Now  that  franks  are  come  back  into  the  world, 
one  need  not  wait  for  an  inspired  moment  to  write;  if  one's  letter 
is  worth  notlung,  it  costs  nothing — nor  will  any  letter  that  tells  you 
of  our  welfare  and  assures  you  of  our  continual  affection,  be  worth 
nothing  in  your  eyes,  ever  destitute  of  news  or  anything  else  that 
might  make  it  entertaining. 

The  weather  is  grown  horribly  cold,  and  I  am  chiefly  intent,  at 
present,  on  getting  my  winter  wardrobe  into  order.  I  have  made 
up  the  old  black  gown  (which  was  dyed  puce  for  me  at  Dumfries), 
with  my  own  hands;  it  looks  twenty  per  cent,  better  than  when  it 
was  new ;  and  I  shall  get  no  other  this  winter.  I  am  now  turning 
my  pelisse.  I  went  yesterday  to  a  milliner's  to  buy  a  bonnet:  an 
old,  very  ugly  lady,  upwards  of  seventy,  I  am  sure,  was  bargaining 
about  a  cloak  at  the  same  place;  it  was  a  fine  affair  of  satin  and 
velvet;  but  she  declared  repeatedly  that  '  it  had  no  air,'  and  for  her 
part  she  could  not  put  on  such  a  thing.  My  bonnet,  I  flatter  my- 
self, has  an  air;  a  little  brown  feather  nods  over  the  front  of  it,  and 
the  crown  points  like  a  sugar-loaf!  The  diameter  of  the  fashion- 
able ladies  at  present  is  about  three  yards;  their  bustles  (false  bot- 
toms) are  the  size  of  an  ordinary  sheep's  fleece.  The  very  servant- 
girls  wear  bustles:  Eliza  Miles  told  mc  a  maid  of  theirs  went  out 
one  Sunday  with  three  kitchen  dusters  pinned  on  as  a  substitute. 

Tlie  poor  Mileses  are  in  great  affliction.  Mr.  Miles,  about  the 
time  we  came  to  London,  got  into  an  excellent  situation,  and  they 

«  About  a  month  before  this  date,  Edward  Irving  rode  to  the  door  one  even- 
ing, came  in  and  stayed  wltli  us  some  twenty  minutes,  the  one  call  we  ever 
had  of  him  here— his  farewell  call  before  setting  out  to  ride  towards  Glasgow, 
as  the  doctors,  helpless  otherwise,  had  ordered.  He  was  very  friendly,  calm 
and  affectionate;  spoke,  chivalrously  courteous,  to  her  (as  I  remember):  'Ah, 
yes,'  looking  round  the  room.  You  are  like  an  Eve.  make  every  place  you 
live  in  beautiful:'  He  was  not  sad  in  manner,  but  was  at  heart,  as  you 
could  notice— serious,  even  solemn.  Darkness  at  hand,  and  the  weather 
damp,  he  could  not  loiter.  I  saw  him  mount  at  the  door,  watched  till  he 
turned  the  first  corner  (close  by  the  rector's  garden-door),  and  had  vanished 
from  us  for  altogether.  He  died  at  Glasgow  before  the  end  of  December 
coming. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  7 

were  just  beginning  to  feel  independent,  and  looked  forward  to  a 
comfortable  future,  when  one  morning,  about  a  week  ago,  Mr. 
Miles,  in  walking  through  his  warerooms,  was  noticed  to  stagger; 
and  one  of  the  men  ran  and  caught  him  as  he  was  falling:  he  was 
carried  to  a  public-house  close  by  (his  own  house  being  miles  off), 
and  his  wife  and  daughter  sent  for.  He  never  spoke  to  tliem; 
could  never  be  removed;  but  there,  in  the  midst  of  confusion  and 
riot,  they  sat  watching  him  for  two  days,  when  he  expired.  I  went 
up  to  see  them  so  soon  as  I  heard  of  their  misfortune.  The  wife 
was  confined  to  bed  with  inflammation  in  her  head.  Poor  Eliza  was 
up,  and  resigned-looking,  but  the  picture  of  misery.  '  A  gentleman 
from  Mr.  Irving's  church '  was  with  her,  saying  what  he  could. 

A  brother  and  sister,  the  most  intimate  friends  I  ever  had  in 
East  Lothian,  live  quite  near  (for  London),  and  I  have  other 
East  Lothian  acquaintances.  Mrs.  Hunt  I  shall  soon  be  quite 
terminated  with,  I  foresee.  She  torments  my  life  out  with  bor- 
rowing. She  actually  borrowed  one  of  the  brass  fenders  tho 
other  day,  and  I  had  difficulty  in  getting  it  out  of  her  hands; 
irons,  glasses,  tea-cups,  silver  spoons,  are  in  constant  requisition; 
and  when  one  sends  for  them  the  whole  number  can  never  be 
found.  Is  it  not  a  shame  to  manage  so,  with  eight  guineas  a 
week  to  keep  house  on !  It  makes  me  very  indignant  to  see  all  the 
waste  that  goes  on  around  me,  when  I  am  needing  so  much  care 
and  calculation  to  make  ends  meet.  When  we  dine  out,  to  see  as 
much  money  expended  on  a  dessert  of  fruit  (for  no  use  but  to  give 
people  a  colic)  as  would  keep  us  in  necessaries  for  two  or  three 
weeks!  My  present  maid  has  a  grand-uncle  in  town  with  upwards 
of  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  who  drives  his  carriage  and  all 
that;  at  a  great  dinner  he  had,  he  gave  five  pounds  for  a  couple  of 
pineapples  when  scarce;  and  here  is  his  niece  working  all  the  year 
through  for  eight,  and  he  has  never  given  her  a  brass  farthing 
since  she  came  to  London. 

My  mother  gave  a  good  account  of  your  looks.  I  hope  you  will 
go  and  see  her  again  for  a  longer  time.  She  was  so  gratified  by 
your  visit.  I  have  just  liad  a  letter  from  her,  most  satisfactory,  tell- 
ing me  all  she  knows  about  any  of  you.  She  gives  a  most  wonder- 
ful account  of  some  transcendental  ly  beautiful  shawl  which  Jane 
had  made  her  a  present  of.  I  am  sure  never  present  gave  more 
contentment. 

Carlyle  is  going  to  a  Radical  meeting  to-night,  but  there  is  no 
fear  of  his  getting  into  mischief.     Curiosity  is  his  only  motive — 


8  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  I  must  away  to  the  butcher's  to  get  his  dinner.  I  wish  you 
may  be  able  to  read  what  I  have  written.  I  write  with  a  steel 
pen,  which  is  a  very  unpliable  concern,  and  has  almost  cut  into 
my  finger.  God  bless  you  all.  A  kiss  to  Mary's  new  baby  when 
you  see  it. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carltle. 
LETTER  3. 

Postscript  to  some  letter  of  mine,  announcing  brother  John's 
speedy  advent  from  Italy,  and  visit  to  Scotsbrig  as  his  next  step. 

The  '  wee  loains '  (weans)  are  sister  Mary's,  sister  Jean's,  and 
brother  Alick's;  '  wee  Jane,'  her  namesake,  is  brother  Alick  s  eld- 
est. '  Mighty  nation '  had  this  origin  (derived  by  tradition  of 
mine):  My  mother,  in  the  act  of  removing  from  Ecclefechan,  to 
Mainhill  (in  1816),  which  was  a  serious  new  adventure  to  the  fam- 
ily and  her,  had,  as  she  privately  told  me,  remembered  vividly  the 
first  time  she  came  doion  that  road,  riding  towards  Ecclefechan,  as 
a  little  girl  behind  her  father — towards  an  aunt,  and  unknown  for- 
tune in  that  new  country — and  how  she  could  now  piously  say  of 
herself,  like  Jacob,  '  Now  hath  the  Lord  made  of  me  a  great  na- 
tion.'   Good  dear  mother! 

I  almost  think  this  promised  visit  to  Scotland  did  not  take  effect 
— John's  own  part  of  it  having  failed,  and  general  uncertainty  hav- 
ing thereupon  supervened.  I  was  myself  in  dreadful  struggle ' 
with  the  burnt  first  volume  of  'French  Revolution;'  miserable  ac- 
cident which  had  befallen  three  months  before  this  date;  but  which 
(having  persisted  to  finish  '  Book  i.  Vol.  II.,'  before  turning  back) 
I  had  now  first  practically  grappled  with,  and  found  how  near  it 
bordered  on  the  absolutely  insuperable!  certainly  the  impossiblest- 
looking  literary  problem  I  ever  had:  'resembles  swimming  in  an 
element  not  of  water,  but  of  quasi- vacuum,'  said  I  mournfull3\  al- 
most desperately:  'by  main  force,  impossible,  I  find! ' — and  so  had 
flung  it  all  by,  about  this  date;  and  for  four  weeks  was  reading  the 
trashiest  heap  of  novels  (Marryat's,  &c.)  to  hush  down  my  mind, 
and,  as  it  were,  bury  the  disaster  under  ashes  for  a  time.  About 
July  I  cautiously,  gingerly,  stept  up  to  the  affair  again,  and  grad- 
ually got  it  done.  How  my  darling  behaved  under  all  this,  with 
what  heroism  and  what  love,  I  have  mentioned  elsewhere.  I  find 
she  renounced  Scotland  for  this  year,  and  instead  appointed  her 
mother  to  come  and  visit  us  here,  which  did  take  effect,  as  will  be 
seen.— T.  C. 

*  I  may  mention  here  a  fact  connected  with  the  burning  of  this  MS.  Mill  had 
borrowed  it  to  read,  and  when  in  his  hands  it  was  in  some  way  destroyed :  he 
came  himself  to  Cheyne  Row  to  confess  what  had  happened.  He  sat  three 
hours  trying  to  talk  of  other  subjects.  When  he  went  away  at  last,  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle  told  me  that  the  first  words  which  Carlyle  spoke  were:  '  Well!  MiU,  poor 
fellow,  is  very  miserable;  we  must  try  to  keep  from  him  how  serious  the  loss 
is  to  us.'— J.  A.  F. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  0 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  May  2,  1835. 

I  too  am  coming,  dear  mother,  and  expect  a  share  of  the  wel- 
come! For  though  I  am  no  sou,  nor  even  much  worth  as  a  daugh- 
ter, you  have  a  heart  where  there  is  'coot  and  coom  again.' ^  I 
think  of  nothing  so  much  at  present  as  this  journey  to  Scotland; 
all  the  sea-sickness  and  fatigues  of  my  former  journeys  do  not 
damp  my  ardour  for  this  one. 

Carlyle  has  not  told  you  a  piece  of  news  we  heard  yesterday,  so 
curious  as  to  be  worth  recording.  Mrs.  Badams,  who  a  year  and 
a  half  ago  made  such  outrageous  weeping  and  wailing  over  the 
death  of  her  liusband,  is  on  the  eve  of  a  second  marriage  (has  been 
engaged  for  months  back)  to  a  Frenchman  who  is — her  own  half- 
nephew!  !  !  the  son  of  a  sister  who  was  daughter  to  the  same  father 
by  a  former  wife!  Such  things,  it  seems,  are  tolerated  in  France; 
to  us  here  it  seems  rather  shocking.  Such  is  the  upshot  of  all  poor 
Badam's  labours  and  anxieties,  and  sacrifices  of  soul  and  body,  in 
amassing  money!  Himself  lies  killed,  with  brandy  and  vexation, 
in  a  London  churchyard;  and  the  wreck  of  his  wealth  goes  to  sup- 
ply the  extravagances  of  a  rabble  of  French  who  have  neither  com- 
mon sense  nor  common  decency. 

I  have  just  had  a  call  from  an  old  rejected  lover,  who  has  been 
in  India  these  ten  years:  though  he  has  come  home  with  more 
thousands  of  pounds  than  we  are  ever  likely  to  have  hundreds,  or 
even  scores,  the  sight  of  him  did  not  make  me  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
my  preference.  Indeed,  I  continue  quite  content  with  my  bargain; 
I  could  wish  him  a  little  less  yellow,  and  a  little  more  peaceable;  but 
that  is  all. 

What  a  quantity  of  wee  wains  I  shall  have  to  inspect!  though  I 
doubt  if  any  of  them  will  equal  the  first  wee  Jane,  whom  I  hope 
they  are  not  suffering  to  forget  me.  Truly  you  are  become  '  a 
mighty  nation  ' !  .  God  prosper  it! 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  Welsh  Carlyle. 

LETTER  4. 

Susan  Himter  of  St.  Andrews,  now  and  long  since  Mrs.  Stirling 
of  Edinburgh,  was  daughter  of  a  Professor  Hunter  in  St.  Andrews 

>  'The  grace  of  God,  brethren,'  said  some  (mythical)  Methodist,  'is  like  a 
round  of  beef;  there  is  coot  and,'  &c. 

1* 


10  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

University,  and  granddaughter  of  a  famous  do.  do.,  whose  editions 
of  Virgil,  and  various  other  Latin  classics,  all  excellently  printed 
in  the  little  county  town  of  Cupar,  Fife,  are  held  iu  deserved  es- 
teem, not  among  ourselves  only,  but  in  Germany  itself,  by  the  best 
judges  there. 

To  an  elder  sister  of  this  Susan  the  afterwards  famous  Francis 
Jeffrey,  then  a  young  Edinburgh  advocate,  had  been  wedded,  and 
was  greatly  attached;  but  she  soon  died  from  him  and  left  him  a 
childless  widower.  A  second  sister  of  Susan's,  I  believe,  had  mar- 
ried John  Jeffrey,  younger  and  only  brother  of  Francis;  but  she 
too  had  died,  and  there  were  no  children  left.  John  Jeffrey  fol- 
lowed no  profession,  had  wandered  about  the  world,  at  one  time 
been  in  America,  in  revolutionary  France,  but  had  since  settled 
pleasantly  in  Edinbutgh  within  reach  of  his  brother,  and  was  a 
very  gentle,  affectionate,  pleasantly  social  and  idly  ingenious  man. 
I  remember  Susan  and  her  one  younger  sister  as  living  often  with 
John  Jeffrey;  I  conclude  it  was  at  Craigcrook,  at  Francis  Jeffrey's 
that  we  had  made  acquaintance  with  her.  She  was  a  tall,  lean, 
cleanlj'  trim  and  wise-looking,  though  by  no  means  beautiful  wom- 
an, except  that  her  face  and  manners  expressed  nothing  that  was 
not  truthful,  simple,  rational,  modest  though  decided.  Susan  and 
a  brother  of  hers,  John,  who  sometimes  visited  here  in  after  times, 
and  is  occasionally  mentioned  in  these  letters,  had  a  great  admira- 
tion and  even  affection  for  Leigh  Hunt,  to  whom  John  was  often 
actually  subventive.  Susan's  mild  love  for  poor  Hunt,  sparkling 
through  her  old-maidish,  cold,  still,  exterior,  was  sometimes  amus- 
ingly noticeable. — T.  C. 

To  Miss  Hunter,  Millfidd  House,  Edmonton. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  June  1835. 

My  dear  Susan  Hunter, — What  an  infidel  you  are  to  dream  of 
my  ever  forgetting  either  your  existence  or  your  kindness!  Wom- 
an though  I  be,  and  though  Mr.  John  Jeffrey  once  said  of  me  (not 
in  my  hearing)  that  I  was  '  distinguished  as  a  flirt '  in  my  time,  I 
can  tell  you  few  people  are  as  steady  in  their  attachments.  That 
I  was  attached  to  you,  a  person  of  your  quick  penetration  could 
hardly  fail  to  observe. 

You  were  very  kind  to  me;  and  that  was  not  all;  you  were  sev- 
eral things  that  women  rarely  are,  straightforward  and  clear-sighted, 
among  the  rest,  and  sol  liked  you,  and  have  continued  to  like  you 
to  this  hour.  Never  have  I  thought  of  Edinburgh  since  we  left  it 
without  thinking  of  you  and  the  agreeable  evenings  I  spent  with 
you. 

Such  being  the  case,  you  may  believe  it  is  with  heartfelt  glad- 
ness  that  I  find  you  are  again  within  reach.  Do  come  to-morrow 
evening  or  Thursday,  whichever  suits  you  best,  and  know  that  we 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE,  11 

possess  the  rarest  of  London  accommodations,  a  spare  bed;  so  that 
if  you  consider  the  thing  in  the  same  reasonable  light  that  I  do,  you 
will  undoubtedly  stay  all  night. 

My  dear  Susan  (do  let  me  dispense  with  f  ormalites),  I  am  so  glad 
that  I  have  not  even  taken  time  to  mend  my  pen. 

Your  affectionate  friend 

Jane  Cakltlb. 

LETTER  5. 

Letter  to  John  Sterling;  probably  her  first.  Our  acquaintance 
then  was  but  of  few  weeks'  standing.  This  letter  and  all  the  fol- 
lowing to  the  same  address  were  carefully  laid  together  under 
sealed  cover  'Aug.  14,  1845,' in  Sterling's  still  steady  hand;  and 
mournfully  came  back  to  us  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  longer. — 
T.  C. 

To  the  Bev.  John  Sterling,  Uerstmonceux. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  June  15, 1835. 

My  dear  Sir, — You  did  kindly  to  send  the  little  separate  note. 
The  least  bit  'all  to  m,yself,'  as  the  children  say,  was  sure  to  give 
me  a  livelier  pleasure  than  any  number  of  sheets  in  which  I  had 
but  a  secondary  interest;  for,  in  spite  of  the  honestest  efforts  to 
annihilate  my  I-ety,  or  merge  it  in  what  the  world  doubtless  con- 
siders my  better  half,  I  still  find  myself  a  self- subsisting,  and,  alas! 
self-seeking  me.  Little  Felix,  in  the  '  Wander jah re,'  when,  in  the 
mid-st  of  an  animated  scene  between  Wilhelm  and  Theresa,  he  pulls 
Theresa's  gown,  and  calls  out,  'Mama  Theresa,  I  too  am  here!' 
only  speaks  out  with  the  charming  trustfulness  of  a  little  child  what 
I  am  perpetually  feeling,  though  too  sophisticated  to  pull  people's 
skirts  or  exclaim  in  so  many  words,  '  Mr.  Sterling,  I  too  am  here.' 

But  I  must  tell  you  I  find  a  grave  fault  in  that  note — about  the 
last  fault  I  should  have  dreamt  of  finding  in  any  utterance  of 
yours — it  is  not  believing,  but  faithless!  In  the  first  place,  the 
parenthesis  ('if  ever')  seems  to  me  a  wilful  questioning  of  the 
goodness  of  Providence.  Then  you  say,  if  in  some  weeks  I  can 
bring  myself  to  think  of  you  with  patience,  &c.,  &c.  Now  both 
the  'if  and  'perhaps'  displease  me.  Only  the  most  inveterate 
sceptic  could,  with  your  fineness  of  observation,  have  known  me 
for  two  weeks  without  certifying  himself  that  my  patience  is  in- 
finite, inexhaustible!  that,  in  fact,  I,  as  well  as  yourself,  combine 
'the  wisdom  of  Solomon  with  the  patience  of  Job!'     Far  from 


1^  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  6^ 

being  offended  by  your  dissertation  on  the  '  Sartor,'  •  I  tliink  it  the 
best  that  lias  been  said  or  sung  of  him.  Even  where  your  criticism 
does  not  quite  fall  in  with  my  humble  views,  I  still  love  the  spirit 
of  the  critic.  For  instance,  I  am  loth  to  believe  that  I  have  mar- 
ried a  Pagan ;  but  I  approve  entirely  of  the  warmth  with  which 
you  warn  your  friend  against  the  delusion  of  burning  pastilles  be- 
fore a  statue  of  Jupiter,  and  such  like  extravagances.  I  suppose  it 
is  excessively  heterodox,  and  in  a  Catholic  country  I  should  be 
burnt  for  it,  but  to  you  I  may  safely  confess  that  I  care  almost 
nothing  about  what  a  man  believes  in  comparison  with  how  he 
believes.  If  his  belief  be  correct  it  is  much  the  better  for  himself; 
but  its  intensity,  its  efficacy,  is  the  ground  on  which  I  love  and 
trust  him  Thus,  you  see,  I  am  capable  of  appreciating  your  fer- 
vour in  behalf  of  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  without  being  afflicted 
because  my  husband  is  accused  of  contumacy  against  them. 

But  what  do  you  mean  by  speaking  of  '  a  few  weeks  ?  When 
you  went,  you  said,  with  an  appearance  at  least  of  good  faith,  that 
you  would  be  back  in  London  in  three  weeks;  and  one  week  and 
half  of  another  is  already  gone.  I  hope  you  will  keep  your  time  for 
several  reasons:  chiefly  for  this  one,  that  our  continuance  in  London 
has,  of  late  days,  become  more  uncertain,  the  American  speculation 
having  suddenly  received  a  more  practical  form;  and  if  we  depart 
for  Scotland  without  seeing  you  any  more,  and  afterwards  our  good 
or  evil  star  actually  shoots  over  the  Atlantic,  surely,  to  some  of  us 
at  least  it  will  be  a  matter  of  regret  rather  than  of  self -congratula- 
tion that  our  acquaintance  should  have  begun. 

I  have  seen  your  mother  twice.  She  is  very  good  to  me.  I  have, 
moreover,  been  reviving  one  of  my  young  lady  accomplishments 
for  her  sake ;  painting  flowers  on  a  portfolio,  to  keep  those  verses 
in,  which  she  was  so  troubled  about  losing.  Your  father  has  been 
here  since  I  began  writing,  to  ask  us  to  dinner  on  Saturday.  We 
played  a  drawn  game  at  chess,  and  Carlyle  and  he  debated,  more 
loudly  than  logically,  on  the  subject  of  Napoleon's  morality.  He 
is  just  gone  to  inquire  about  the  house  in  Cheyne  Walk,  in  which 
good  work  I  was  meaning  to  have  forestalled  him,  and  commun- 
icated the  result  in  my  letter.  If  a  fairy  would  grant  me  three 
wishes  this  evening,  my  first  would  be  that  we  might  remain  where 
we  are,  my  second  that  you  might  be  settled  in  Cheyne  Walk,  and 
the  third,  like  a  thrifty  Scotchwoman,  I  would  beg  leave  to  lay  by 


«  Herstmonoeux,  May  89, 1835  (Life  of  Sterling,  1864  edit.,  p,  274). 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  18 

in  reserve  for  future  need.  And  now  I  must  go  and  array  myself 
with  all  possible  splendour  for  a  rout  at  Mrs.  Buller's,'  where 
O'Connell  is  to  be,  and  all  the  earth— that  is  to  say,  all  the  Radical 
earth.  Wish  me  good  speed.  May  I  offer  my  good  wishes,  and 
prospective  regards  to  your  wife  ? 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Caelyle. 

LETTER  6. 

To  Miss  Hunter,  Millfield  House,  Edmonton. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday  [July?]  1835. 

Dear, — I  am  too  essentially  Scotch  not  to  give  due  heed  to  the 
proverb  'it  is  good  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,'  which 
means,  in  the  present  case,  it  is  good  to  catch  hold  of  a  friend 
while  she  is  in  the  humour.  But  I  have  been  provokingly  hindered 
from  acting  up  to  my  principle  by  the  prolonged  absence  of  my 
usual  domestic,  which  has  kept  us  until  the  present  day  in  'the 
valley  of  the  shadow'  of  charwoman;  and,  thoroughgoing  as  I 
know  you  to  be,  I  feared  to  invite  you  to  participate  therein. 
Now,  however,  I  have  got  the  deficiency  supplied,  after  a  more 
permanent  and  comfortable  fashion,  and  make  haste  to  say  '  come 
and  stay.'  Come,  dear  Susan,  and  let  us  make  the  best  of  this 
'  very  penetrating  world  '—as  a  maid  of  my  mother's  used  to  call  it 
in  vapourish  moods — come  and  wind  me  up  again,  as  you  have 
often  done  before  when  I  was  quite  run  down,  so  that,  from  being 
a  mere  senseless  piece  of  lumber,  I  began  to  tick  and  tell  people  what 
o'clock  it  was.  Will  you  come  in  the  ensuing  week?  Name  your 
own  time,  only  remember  the  sooner  the  better, 

My  kind  regards  to  Mr.  John  when  you  write,  and  to  your  sister. 
Do  you  remember  her  physiological  observation  on  hens?  * 

I  hear  nothing  of  his  lordship, ^  but  the  fault  is  my  own. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carltle, 

Do  not  be  after  thinking  that  I  have  lost  the  power  to  write  more 
legibly.      I  am  just  out  of  one  of  my  headaches — my  hand  shakes. 

1  I  remember  this  '  Buller  Soir6e,'  with  'O'Connell  and  all  the  Radical 
earth  '  there;  good  enough  for  looking  at  slightly,  as  in  a  menagerie.  O'Con- 
nell I  had  already  seen  the  figure  of,  heard  the  voice  of,  somewhere;  speak  to 
him  I  never  did,  nor,  in  the  end,  would  have  done. 

»  Lost  to  me,  or  gone  to  the  remnant  of  an  indistinguishable  .shadow  (1873). 

•  Lord- Advocate  Jeffrey. 


14  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

No  Miss  ,'  however,  stept  in  out  of  space  to  drive  me  to  ex> 

tremity.    Oh,  the  horror  of  that  moment ! 


LETTER  7. 

Mrs.  Welsh  was  to  come  about  the  end  of  August.    I  was  now 

getting  tolerably  on  with  my  '  burnt  MS.,'  and  could  see  the  bless- 
ed end  of  it  lying  ahead — had,  probablj^  myself  resolved  on  a  run 
to  Annandale,  by  way  of  bonfire  on  that  victorious  event.  At  least, 
I  did  go  for  a  week  or  two,  it  appears,  and  brought  up  an  Annan 
maidservant  with  me,  one  'Anne  Cook,'  who  proved  peaceable  and 
obedient  for  a  year  or  more  afterwards.  The  continual  trouble  my 
brave  little  woman  bore — all  of  it  kept  quiet  from  me,  result  quasi- 
perfect,  of  his  own  accord,  when  it  came  to  me — is  now,  to  look 
back  upon,  tragically  beautiful!  That  'miraculous  Irish  Roman 
Catholic '  proved  utterly  a  failure  before  long. 

The  Wilsons  of  the  'Madeira  hamper,'  and  of  many  other  kind 
procedures  and  feelings  towards  us,  were  an  opulent  brother  and 
sister  of  considerablj^  cultivated  and  most  orthodox  type  (especially 
the  sister),  whom  we  had  met  with  at  Henry  Taylor's,  and  who  held 
much  to  us  for  many  years — indeed,  the  sister  did  (though  now 
fallen  deaf,  &c,)  till  ray  dear  one  was  snatched  away.  I  think  they 
both  yet  live  (2  Upper  Eccleston  Street),  but  I  shudder  to  call,  and 
shall  likely  see  them  no  more.  Many  dinners — James  Spedding, 
Reverend  Maurice,  John  Sterling  (once  or  twice),  James  Stephen 
(afterwards  Sir  James),  Perrot  of  Edinburgh  (who  was  the  brother 
of  'Tom  Wilson's'  Cambridge  old  friend),  &c.,  &c. — many  dinners 
brilliantly  complete,  and  with  welcome  glad  and  hearty,  at  which, 
however,  I  would  rather  not  have  been. 

The  coterie-speech  abounds  in  this  letter;  more  witty  and  amus- 
ing, much,  very  much,  to  the  first  reader  than  it  can  now  ever  be 
to  another.  E.xplanation  I  must  add  at  any  rate.  '  Blessings  &c. 
over  my  head:' Extempore  public  prayer:"' Lord,  we  thank  Thee 
for  the  many  blessings  Thou  art  making  to  pass  over  our  heads.' 
'Encouragement:'  Cumberland  man  (to  me),  concerning  a  squire 
whose  son  and  he  had  quite  quarrelled:  '  Feaylher  gives  him  nea 
encouragement.'  '  Arnot,'  a  little  laird,  come  almost  to  starvation 
by  drinking,  &c.  A  poor  creditor,  unpayable,  overheard  Mrs.  A. 
whispering,  'Let  us  keep,' &c.  'Victualling:'  Old  Johnnie  Mac- 
caw  (McCall),  a  strange  old  Galloway  peasant  of  our  Craigenput 
took  neighbourhood,  who  witnessed  the  beginning  of  settlement 
in  1834,  had  asked  my  sister  Mary,  'D'ye  victual  a'  thae  folk? 
Ai  what  a  victualling  tliey  wuU  tak! ' 

I  recollect  the  evening  with  the  Degli  Antonis — that  evening! 
all  gone,  all  gone!  (Dumfries,  August  16,  1868).— T.  C. 


1  A  rather  bouncing  young  Edinburgh  lady,  daughter  of ,  not  in  the 

highest  esteem  everywhere.    Her  '  stepping  in  '  (two  years  ago,  in  the  Edin- 
burgh winter)  I  have  forgotten. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  15 

To  Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries. 

Chelsea:  Aug.  1835. 

My  dear  Jane,  —Even  the  doubt  expressed  in  j'our  last  letter  about 
the  durability  of  my  affection  was  more  agreeable  to  me  than  the 
brief  notice  which  j'ou  usually  put  me  off  with,  '  remember  us  to  Mrs. 
Carlyle,'  or  still  worse,  '  remember  us  to  your  lad}-.'  I  have  told  j'ou 
often  that  it  aflQicts  me  to  be  always,  in  the  matter  of  correspondence 
with  j^ou,  obliged,  like  the  Annandale  man,  to  thank  God  '  for  the 
blessings  made  to  pass  over  my  head.'  It  ought  not,  perhaps,  to 
make  any  difference  whether  your  letters  be  addressed  to  him  or  me, 
but  it  does.  You  never  in  your  life  answered  a  letter  of  mine  (and 
I  have  written  you  several),  except  little  business  notes  from  Dum- 
fries, which  could  not  be  considered  any  voluntary  expression  of 
kind  remembrance.  Had  you  even  expressed  a  wish  to  hear  from 
me  since  I  came  here,I  would  nevertheless  have  written,  being  of  a 
disposition  to  receive  thankfully  the  smallest  mercies  when  greater 
are  denied;  but,  as  I  said,  you  have  always  put  me  off  with  a  bare 
recognition  of  my  existence,  which  was  small  'encouragement.' 
The  fact  is,  we  are  both  of  us,  I  believe,  too  proud.  We  go  upon 
the  notion  of  '  keeping  up  our  dignity,  Mr.  Aruot.'  You  have  it  by 
inheritance  from  your  mother,  who  (as  I  have  often  told  herself) 
with  a  great  profession  of  humility  is  swallowed  up  in  this  sin;  and 
I  have  possibly  been  seduced  into  it  by  her  example,  which  I  was 
simple  enough  to  consider  a  safe  one  to  imitate  in  all  respects. 

For  my  part,  however,  I  am  quite  willing  to  enter  into  a  compact 
with  you  henceforth  to  resist  the  devil,  in  so  far  as  he  interferes  with 
our  mutual  good  understanding;  for  few  things  were  more  pleas- 
ant for  me  than  to  'tell  you  sundr}^  news'  of  every  kind,' nay, 
rather  'every  thought  which  enters  within  this  shallow  mind,'  had 
I  but  the  least  scrap  of  assurance  of  your  contentment  therewith. 

Now  that  my  mother  is  actually  coming,  I  am  more  reconciled  to 
my  disappointment  about  Scotland.  Next  year,  God  willing,  I 
shall  see  you  all  again.  Meanwhile,  I  am  wonderfully  well  hefted 
here;  llie  people  are  extravagantly  kind  to  me,  and  in  most  respects 
my  situation  is  out  of  sight  more  suitable  than  it  was  at  Craigen- 
puttock.  Of  late  weeks  Carlyle  has  also  been  getting  on  better  with 
his  writing,  which  has  been  uphill  work  since  the  burning  of  the 
first  manuscript.     I  do  not  think  that  the  second  version  is  on  the 

>  Some  old  child's  verses  of  this  same  '  Craw  Jean '  (considerably  laughed  at 
and  admired  by  ua  in  their  time). 


16  LETTERS  AND  MEMOPJALS  OF 

whole  inferior  to  the  first ;  it  is  a  little  less  vicacious,  perhaps,  but 
better  thought  and  put  together.  One  chapter  more  brings  him  to 
the  end  of  his  second  'first  volume,'  and  then  we  shall  sing  a  Te 
Deum  and  get  drunk — for  whicli,  by  the  way,  we  have  unusual 
facilities  at  present,  a  friend  (Mr.  Wilson)  having  yesterday  sent  us 
a  present  of  a  hamper  (some  six  or  seven  pounds'  worth)  of  the 
finest  old  Madeira  wine.  These  Wilsons  are  about  the  best  people 
we  know  here;  the  lady,  verging  on  oldmaidenism,is  distinctly  the 
cleverest  woman  I  know. 

Then  there  are  Sterlings,  who,  from  the  master  of  the  house 
down  to  the  footman,  are  devoted  to  me  body  and  soul;  it  is  be- 
tween us  as  between  '  Beauty  and  the  Beast ' : — 

Speak  your  wishes,  speak  your  will, 
Swift  obedience  meets  you  still. 

I  have  only  to  say  'I  should  like  to  see  such  a  thing,'  or  'to  be  at 
such  a  place, '  and  next  day  a  carriage  is  at  the  door,  or  a  boat  is  on 
the  river  to  take  me  if  I  please  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Through 
them  we  have  plumped  into  as  pretty  an  Irish  connection  as  one 
would  wish.  Among  the  rest  is  a  Mr.  Dunn,  an  Irish  clergyman, 
who  would  be  the  delight  of  your  mothej-'s  heart — a  perfect  person- 
ification of  the  spirit  of  Christianity.  You  may  take  this  fact  to 
judge  him  by,  that  he  has  refused  two  bishoprics  in  the  course  of  his 
life,  for  conscience  sake.  We  have  also  some  Italian  acquaintances. 
An  Italian  Countess  Clementina  Degli  Antoni  is  the  woman  to  make 
my  husband  faithless,  if  such  a  one  exist — so  beautiful,  so  graceful, 
so  melodious,  so  witty,  so  ever3'thing  that  is  fascinating  for  the 
heart  of  man.  I  am  learning  from  her  to  speak  Italian,  and  she 
finds,  she  says,  that  I  have  a  divine  talent  {divino  talento).  She  is 
coming  to  tea  this  evening,  and  another  Italian  exile,  Count  de  Pe- 
poli,  and  a  Danish  young  lady,  '  Siugeress  to  the  King  of  Den- 
mark,'and  jMr.  Sterling  and  my  old  lover  George  Rennie.  'The 
victualling '  of  so  many  people  is  here  a  trifle,  or  rather  a  mere 
affair  of  the  imagination:  tea  is  put  down,  and  tiny  biscuits;  they 
sip  a  few  drops  of  tea,  and  one  or  two  sugar  biscuits  '  victuals ' 
a  dozen  ordinary  eaters.  So  that  the  thing  goes  off  with  small 
damage  to  even  a  long-necked  purse.  The  expenditure  is  not  of 
one's  money,  but  of  one's  wits  and  spirits;  and  that  is  sometimes 
so  considerable  as  to  leave  one  too  exhausted  for  sleeping  after. 

I  have  been  fidgeted  with  another  change  of  servants.  The 
woman  recommended  to  me  by  Mrs.  Austin  turned  out  the  best 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  17 

servant  I  had  ever  had,  though  a  rather  unamiable  person  in  tem- 
per, »fcc.  We  got  on,  uowever,  quite  harmoniously,  and  the  affairs 
of  the  house  were  conducted  to  my  entire  satisfaction,  when  sud- 
denly she  was  sent  for  liome  to  attend  a  sick  mother;  and,  after 
three  weelis'  absence,  during  which  time  I  had  to  find  a  charwoman 
to  supply  her  place,  she  sent  me  word,  the  other  day,  that,  in  the 
state  of  uncertainty  she  was  kept  in  she  could  not  expect  her  place 
to  remain  longer  vacant  for  her.  The  next  day  I  lighted  on  an  ac- 
tive, tidy-looking  Irish  Roman  Catholic  in  a  way  so  singular  that  I 
could  not  help  considering  her  as  intended  for  me  by  Providence, 
and  boding  well  of  our  connection.  She  is  not  come  yet,  but  will 
be  here  on  Wednesday;  and  in  the  meanwhile  my  charwoman,  who 
has  her  family  in  the  workhouse,  does  quite  tolerably. 

One  comfort  is,  that  I  have  not  to  puddle  about  myself  here,  as  I 
used  to  have  with  the  'soot  drops '  at  Craigenputtock;  the  people 
actually  do  their  own  work,  better  or  worse.  We  have  no  bugs  yet, 
to  the  best  of  my  knowledge;  and  I  do  not  know  of  one  other 
house  among  all  my  acquaintance  that  so  much  can  be  said  for. 
For  all  which,  and  much  more,  we  have  reason  to  be  thankful. 

I  must  not  finish  without  begging  your  sympathy  in  a  disaster  be- 
fallen me  since  I  commenced  this  letter — the  cat  has  eaten  one  of 
my  canaries!  Not  Chico,  poor  dear;  but  a  young  one  which  I 
hatched  '  myself.  I  have  sent  the  abominable  monster  out  of  my 
sight  for  ever — transferred  her  to  Mrs.  Hunt. 

With  kindest  regards  to  every  one  of  you,  prattlers  included, 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carltlb. 

LETTER  8. 

To  Mm  Hunter,  Millfield  House,  Edmonton. 

5  ChesTie  Row,  Chelsea:  Sunday,  Sept.  22, 1835. 
My  dear  Friend, — T  have  been  hindered  from  writing  to  you  all 
this  while  by  the  same  cause  which  has  hindered  me  from  doing 
almost  everything  on  earth  that  I  ought  to  have  done  these  last  six 
weeks — continued  illness,  namely,  taking  one  day  the  form  of  in- 
tolerable headache;  another  day  of  equally  intolerable  colic;  and 
many  days  together  animating  me  with  a  noble  disposition  to  hang 
or  drown  myself.     Since  you  left  me  especially,  I  have  been  at  the 

>  Assitted  in  hatching,  or,  bringing  from  the  shell  I  Chico  was  a  very  bad 
husband  and  father. 


18  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

right  pitch  of  suffering  for  entitling  me  to  Mr.  Jeffrey's  warmest 
sympathy — confineci  to  bed,  and  aot  out  of  danger  of  '  going  to  the 
undertaker '  (the  cockney  idea  of  a  future  state). 

My  projected  visit  to  Herstmonceux  did  not  talre  effect,  my 
mother  arriving  '  on  the  very  day  we  should  have  set  out.  It  seemed 
when  I  had  received  her  in  a  perpendicular  posture,  and  seen  her 
fairly  established  in  the  house,  that  I  had  nothing  more  to  do,  for 
I  made  no  more  fight  with  destiny,  but  quietly  took  to  bed. 

When  I  was  a  little  recovered,  Mrs.  Sterling,  who  would  not 
give  up  the  fancy  for  taking  me  out  of  town,  carried  me  to  her 
brother's  for  a  few  days — about  twenty-five  miles  from  London,'  a 
perfect  Paradise  of  a  place — peopled,  as  every  Paradise  ought  to 
be,  with  angels.  There  I  drank  warm  milk  and  ate  new  eggs,  and 
bathed  in  pure  air,  and  rejoiced  in  cheerful  countenances,  and  was 
as  happy  as  the  day  was  long;  which  I  should  have  been  a  monster 
not  to  have  been,  when  everybody  about  me  seemed  to  have  no 
other  object  in  life  but  to  study  my  pleasure.  I  returned  in  high 
feather — to  be  sick  again  the  very  next  day. 

Now  I  am  but  just  arisen  from  another  horrible  attack,  which  be- 
ing the  worst,  I  fondly  flatter  myself  may  be  the  finale  to  the  busi- 
ness for  this  time. 

I  long  very  much  to  see  you  again,  and  have  too  much  confi- 
dence in  your  kindness  of  nature  to  dread  that  my  inability  to 
make  your  last  visit  agreeable,  or  even  decently  comfortable,  will 
deter  you  from  giving  me  again  the  pleasure  which  I  always  have 
in  your  company,  sicli  or  well. 

Carlyle  expects  to  be  at  the  end  of  his  vexatious  task  this  blessed 
day,'  and  in  a  week  or  ten  days  will  probably  depart  for  Scotland. 
There  has  been  much  solicitation  on  my  mother's  part  that  I  would 
go  also,  and  get  myself  plumped  up  into  some  sort  of  world-like 
rotundity.  But  man  nor  woman  lives  not  by  bread  alone,  nor 
warm  milk,  nor  any  of  these  things;  now  that  she  is  here,  the 
most  that  Dumfriesshire  could  do  for  me  is  already  done,  and  coun- 
try air  and  country  fare  would  hardly  counterbalance  country  dul- 
ness  for  me.  A  little  exciting  talk  is  many  times,  for  a  person  of 
my  temperament,  more  advantageous  to  bodily  health  than  either 


1  Came  Aug.  31.  Herstmonceux,  where  John  Sterling  still  was,  had  been 
the  kind  project  of  his  motlier  for  behoof  of  my  poor  suffering  Jeannie. 

'  Near  Watford  (Mr.  Cunningham,  who  tragically  died  soon  after). 

'  Just  about  to  finish  his  re-writing  of  Vol.  I.  French  Revolution,  a  task  such 
as  he  never  had  before  or  since  I 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  19 

judicious  physicking  or  nutritious  diet  and  good  air.  Besides, 
nobody  wasever  less  than  I  a  partaker  in  tlie  curse  of  the  man  who 
was  'made  like  unto  a  wheel.'  I  have  no  taste  whatever  for  loco- 
motion, by  earth,  air,  or  sea  (by  the  way,  did  you  hear  that  the 
aerial  ship  has  been  arrested  for  debt?). 

Will  you  come  a  while  in  Carlyle's  absence,  and  help  to  keep  my 
mother  and  me  from  wearying?  I  think  I  may  safely  engage  to  be 
more  entertaining  than  you  found  me  last  time;  and  one  thing  you 
are  always  sure  of,  while  I  keep  my  soul  and  body  together — an 
affectionate  welcome.  For  the  rest,  namely, _for  external  accommo- 
dations, you,  like  the  rest  of  us,  will  be  at  tlie  mercy  of  another 
distracted  Irishwoman,  or  such  successor  as  Heaven  in  its  mercy, 
or  wrath,  may  provide,  for  this  one  also  is  on  the  '  move.'  My 
husband,  God  willing,  will  bring  me  a  sane  creature  of  the  servant 
sort  from  Scotland  with  him;  for  it  is  positively  a  great  crook  in 
my  present  lot  to  have  so  much  of  my  time  and  thought  occupied 
with  these  mean  perplexities. 

Your  friend  Mr.  Craik  was  here  lately;  he  seems  a  good-hearted 
pleasant  man. 

Carlyle  unites  with  me  in  kind  love.  My  mother  also  begs  iier 
remembrances.  Forgive  scrawling,  and  many  things  besides — 
poverty  in  the  article  of  paper  among  others.  Remember  me  to 
Mr.  John  and  your  sister  when  you  write,  and  believe  me  always 

Your  affectionate  and  amiable 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  9. 

'Sereetha':  in  the  interval  of  servants  (rebellious  Irishwoman 
packed  off,  and  Anne  Cook  not  yet  come  with  me),  I  remember  this 
poor  little  Chelsea  specimen,  picked  out  as  a  stop-gap  from  some  of 
the  neighbouring  huts  here — a  very  feeble  though  willing  little  girl, 
introduced  by  the  too  romantic-looking  name  'Seraether' — which, 
on  questioning  her  little  self,  I  discovered  to  be  Sarah  Heather 
(Sar' 'Father)!  much  to  our  amusement  for  the  moment!  '  Pees- 
weep'is  peewit,  lapwing;  with  wluch  swift  but  ineffectual  bird 
Sereetha  seemed  to  have  similarity. 

'The  kindness  of  these  people!'  'I'm  sure  the,'  &c.,  (inter- 
jectional  in  this  fashion)  was  a  plirase  of  her  mother's. 

'  Beats  the  world.'  Anuandale  form  of  speech  which  she  had 
heard  without  forgetting  from  my  sister  Mary. 

'Garnier,'  big  German  refugee,  dusty,  smoky,  scarred  with  duel- 
cuts;  liad  picked  up  considerable  knowledge  in  his  wanderings, 
was  of  intelligent,  valiant,  manful  character;  wildly  independent, 
with  tendency  to  go  mad  or  half-mad — as  he  did  by-and-by.    II 


20  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

Conte  '  Pepoli '  was  from  Bologua,  exile  and  dilettante,  a  very 
pretty  man;  married,  some  years  hence,  Elizabeth  Fergus  of  Kirk- 
caldy (elderly,  moneyed,  and  fallen  in  love  with  the  romantic  in 
distress);  and  now,  as  widower,  lives  in  Bologua  again. — T.  C. 


To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig.^ 

r.h, 


Chelsea:  Oct.  12,  1835. 
Dearest, — A  newspaper  is  very  pleasant  when  one  is  expecting 
nothing  at  all;  but  when  it  comes  in  place  of  a  letter  it  is  a  positive 
insult  to  one's  feelings.  Accordingly  your  first  newspaper  was 
received  by  me  in  choicest  mood;  and  the  second  would  have  been 
pitched  in  the  fire,  had  there  been  one  at  hand,  when,  after  having 
tumbled  myself  from  the  top  story  at  the  risk  of  my  neck,  I  found 
myself  deluded  with  '  wun  penny'm.'  However,  I  flatter  myself 
you  would  experience  something  of  a  similar  disappointment  on 
receiving  mine;  and  so  we  are  quits,  and  I  need  not  scold  j^ou.  I 
have  not  been  a  day  in  bed  since  you  went — have  indeed  been  al- 
most free  of  headache,  and  all  other  aches;  and  everybody  says  Mrs. 
Carlyle  begins  to  look  better — and  what  everybody  says  must  be 
true.  With  this  improved  health  everything  becomes  tolerable, 
even  to  the  peesweep  Sereetha  (for  we  are  still  without  other  help). 
Now  that  I  do  not  see  you  driven  desperate  with  the  chaos,  I  can 
take  a  quiet  view  of  it,  and  even  reduce  it  to  some  degree  of  order. 
Mother  and  I  have  fallen  naturally  into  a  fair  division  of  labour, 
and  we  keep  a  very  tidy  house.  Sereetha  has  attained  the  un- 
hopedfor  perfection  of  getting  up  at  half  after  six  of  her  own 
accord,  lighting  the  parlour-fire,  and  actually  placiug.the  breakfast 
things  {nil  desperandum  me  duee  !).  I  get  up  at  half  after  seven, 
and  prepare  the  coffee  and  bacon-ham  (which  is  the  life  of  me, 
making  me  always  hungrier  the  more  I  eat  of  it).  Mother,  in  the 
interim,  makes  her  bed,  and  sorts  her  roojn.  After  breakfast, 
mother  descends  to  the  inferno,  where  she  jingles  and  scours,  and 
from  time  to  time  scolds  Sereetha  till  all  is  right  and  tight  there.  I, 
above  stairs,  sweep  the  parlour,  blacken  the  grate — make  the  room 
look  cleaner  than  it  has  been  since  the  days  of  Grace  Macdonald;'^ 
then  mount  aloft  to  make  my  own  bed  (for  I  was  resolved  to  enjoy 
the  privilege  of  having  a  bed  of  my  own);  then  clean  myself  (as  the 
servants  say),  and  sit  down  to  the  Italian  lesson.      A  bit  of  meat 

>  Carlyle  had  gone  to  Annandale  at  the  beginning  of  October.— J.  A.  F. 
'  The  Edinburgh  servant  we  brought  with  us  to  Craigenputtock;  the  skll- 
fullest  we  ever  had  anywhere. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  21 

roasted  at  the  oven  suffices  two  days  cold,  and  does  not  plague  us 
"witli  cookery.  Sereetha  cau  fetch  up  tea-things,  and  the  porridge  is 
easily  made  on  the  parlour-fire;  the  kitchen  one  being  allowed  to 
go  out  (for  economy),  when  the  Peesweep)  retires  to  bed  at  eight 
o'clock. 

That  we  are  not  neglected  by  the  public,  you  may  infer  from  the 
fact  that,  this  very  night,  Peesweep  fetched  up  four  tea-cups  on  the 
tray;  and  when  I  asked  the  meaning  of  the  two  additional,  she  in- 
quired, with  surprise,  '  Were  there  to  be  no  gentlemen? '  In  fact, 
'  the  kindness  of  these  people  '  '  beats  the  world. '  I  had  some  private 
misgiving  that  your  men  would  not  mind  me  when  you  were  not 
here,  and  I  should  have  been  mortified  in  that  case,  though  I  could 
not  have  blamed  them.  But  it  is  quite  the  reverse.  Little  Grant  • 
has  been  twice  to  know  if  he  could  '  do  anything  for  me.'  Garnier 
has  been  twice!  The  first  time  by  engagement  to  you;  the  second 
time  to  meet  Pepoli,  whom  he  knew  in  Paris,  and  wished  to  re-know, 
and  who  proved  perjido  on  the  occasion.  Pepoli  has  been  twice, 
and  is  gliding  into  a  flirtation  with — mia  madre!  who  presented 
him,  in  a  manner  moJto  (/raziosa,  with  her  tartan  scarf.  From  John 
Mill  I  have  been  privileged  with  two  notes,  and  one  visit.  He  evi- 
dently tried  to  yawn  as  little  as  possible,  and  stayed  till  the  usual 
hour,  lest,  I  suppose,  he  should  seem  to  have  missed  your  conversa- 
tion. John  Sterling  and  the  Stimabile,^  of  course.  The  latter  was 
at  tea  last  night  to  meet  Mr.  Gibson- — one  of  my  fatal  attempts  at 
producing  a  reunion,  for  they  coincided  in  nothing  but  years.  The 
Stimabile  was  at  Brighton  for  several  days,  and  goes  again  next 
week,  so  that  he  has  not  been  too  deadly  frequent. 

Our  visiting  has  been  confined  to  one  dinner  and  two  teas  at  the 

Sterlings',  and   a  tea  at  Hunt's!     You  must  know, 

came  the  day  after  you  went,  and  stayed  two  days.  As  she  desired 
above  all  things  to  see  Hunt,  I  wrote  him  a  note,  asking  if  I  might 
bring  her  up  to  call.  He  replied  he  was  just  setting  off  to  town, 
but  would  look  in  at  eight  o'clock.     I  supposed  this,  as  usual,  a 


>  OfHcial  in  the  India  House,  a  friend  and  admirer  of  John  Mill's. 

»  A  title  we  had  for  John's  father.  Signora  degli  Antoni,  the  Italian  in- 
structress in  these  months,  setting  her  pupil  an  epistolary  pattern,  had 
thrown  off  one  day  a  billet  as  if  addressed  to  Edward  Sterling,  which  began 
with  Stimabile  Signor. 

'  Was  a  massive,  easy,  friendly,  dull  person,  physically  one  of  the  best 
washed  I  ever  saw;  American  merchant,  'who  had  made,  and  again  lost, 
three  fortunes';  originally  a  Nithsdale  pedlar  boy,  'Black  Wull,'  by  title; 
'  Silver-headed  Packman,"  he  was  often  called  here. 


22  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

mere  off -put ;  but  he  actually  came — found  Pepoli  as  well  as  Miss 

,  was  amazingly  lively,  and  very  lasting,  for  he  stayed  till 

near  twelve.     Between  ourselves,  it  gave  me  a  poorish  opinion  of 

him,  to  see  how  uplifted  to  the  third  heaven  he  seemed  by 's 

compliments  and  sympathising  talk.  He  asked  us  all,  with  enthu- 
siasm, to  tea  the  following  Monday.     came  on  purpose,  and 

slept  here.     He  sang,  talked  like  a  pen-gun,'  ever  to,  ,  who 

drank  it  all  in  like  nectar,  while  my  mother  looked  cross  enough, 
and  I  had  to  listen  to  the  whispered  confidences  of  Mrs.  Hunt.  But 
for  me,  who  was  declared  to  be  grown  'quite  prim  and  elderly,'  I 
believe  they  would  have  communicated  their  mutual  experiences  in 

a  retired  window-seat  till  morning.      '  God  bless  you.  Miss ,' 

was  repeated  by  Hunt  three  several  times  in  tones  of  ever-increasing 
pathos  and  tenderness,  as  he  handed  her  downstairs  behind  me. 

,  for  once  in  her  life,  seemed  past  speech.     At  the  bottom  of 

the  stairs  a  demur  took  place.  I  saw  nothing;  but  I  heard,  with 
my  wonted  glegness — what  think  you? — a  couple  of  handsome 
smacks!  and  then  an  almost  iuaudibly  soft  'God  bless  you,  Miss 
1' 

Now  just  remember  what  sort  of  looking  woman  is ; 

and  figure  their  transaction!    If  he  had  kissed  me,  it  would  have 

been  intelligible,  but ,  of  all  people!     By  the  way, 

Mr.  Craik  ^  is  immensely  delighted  with  you,  and  grateful  to  Susan 
for  having  brought  you  together.  Mrs.  Cole '  came  the  other  day, 
and  sat  an  hour  waiting  for  me  while  I  was  out,  and  finally  had  to 
go,  leaving  an  obliging  note  offering  me  every  assistance  in  pro- 
curing a  servant. 

Mrs.  John  Sterling  takes  to  me  wonderfully;  but  John,  I  perceive, 
will  spoil  all  with  his  innocence.  He  told  her  the  other  day,  when 
she  was  declaring  her  wish  that  he  would  write  on  theology  rather 
than  make  verses,  that  she  '  might  fight  out  that  matter  with  Mrs. 
Carlyle,  who,  he  knew,  was  always  on  the  side  of  the  poetical.' 
He  (Sterling)  has  written  a  positively  splendid  poem  of  half-an- 
hour's  length — an  allegorical  shadowing  of  the  union  of  the  ideal 
and  actual.  It  is  far  the  best  thing  he  ever  did — far  beyond  any- 
thing I  could  have  supposed  him  capable  of.     He  said,  when  he 


>  Scotice,  gun  made  of  quill-barrel  for  shooting  peas  (and  '  cracking,'  which 
also  means  pleasantly  conversing). 

'  Useful  Knowledge  Craik,  poor  fellow ! 

5  The  now  thrice-notable  '  Crystal  Palace,'  '  Brompton  Boilers,'  &c.,  Sec, 
Henry  Cole's  wife. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  .g3 

was  writing  it,  he  thought  sometimes,  '  Carlyle  will  be  pleased  with 
that." 

To  descend  to  the  practical,  or,  I  should  rather  say  ascend,  for  I 
have  filled  my  whole  paper  with  mere  gossip.  I  think  you  seem, 
so  far  as  human  calculations  avail,  to  have  made  a  good  hit  as  to 
the  servant;  character  is  not  worth  a  straw;  but  j^ou  say  she  looks 
intelligent  and  good-humoured,  is  young  and  willing.'  Fetch  her, 
then,  in  God's  name,  and  I  will  make  the  best  I  can  of  her.  After 
all,  we  fret  ourselves  too  much  about  little  things;  much  that  might 
be  laughed  off,  if  one  were  well  and  cheerful  as  one  ought  to  be, 
becomes  a  grave  aifliction  from  being  too  gravely  looked  at.  Re- 
member also  meal,  and  oh,  for  goodness  sake,  procure  a  dozen  of 
bacon-hams!  There  is  no  bottom  to  my  appetite  for  them.  Sell 
poor  Harry,  by  all  means,  or  shoot  him.  We  are  too  poor  to  in- 
dulge our  tine  feelings  with  keeping  such  large  pets  (especially  at 
other  people's  expense).  What  a  pity  no  frank  is  to  be  got!  I 
have  told  you  nothing  yet.  No  word  ever  came  from  Basil  Mon- 
tague. I  have  translated  four  songs  into  Italian — written  a  long 
excessively  spirituosa  letter  to  '  mia  adorabile  Clementina,'*  and 
many  grazione  cartucie  besides.     In  truth,  I  have  a  clivino  ingegno  ! 

You  will  come  back  strong  and  cheerful,  will  you  not?  I  wish  you 
were  come,  anyhow.  Don't  take  much  castor;  eat  plenty  of  chicken 
broth  rather.  Dispense  iny  love  largely.  Mother  returns  your 
kiss  with  interest.  We  go  on  tolerably  enough;  but  she  has  vowed 
to  hate  all  my  people  except  Pepoli.  So  tliat  there  is  ever  a  '  dark 
brown  shadd  '  in  all  my  little  reunions.  She  has  given  me  a  glori- 
ous black-velvet  gown,  realising  my  hecm  ideal  of  Putz! 

Did  you  take  away  my  folding  penknife?  We  are  knifeless  here. 
We  were  to  have  gone  to  Richmond  to-day  with  the  Silverheaded; 
but,  to  my  great  relief,  it  turned  out  that  the  steamboat  is  not  run- 
ning. 

God  keep  you,  my  own  dear  husband,  and  bring  you  safe  back 

to  me.     Tlie  house  looks  very  empty  without  you,  and  my  mind 

feels  empty  too. 

Your  Jane. 

LETTER  10. 

Beautiful  Poverty,  when  so  triumphed  over,  and  victoriously 
bound  under  foot.  Oh,  my  heroine,  my  too  unacknowledged 
heroine!  I  was  in  the  throes  of  the  'French  Revolution '  at  this 
time,  licavy-huleu  in  many  ways  and  gloomy  of  mind. — T.  C. 

•  Anne  Cook  (got  for  me  by  sister  Mary,  at  Annan).  '  Degli  Antoni. 


24  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Oct.  26, 1835. 

Caro  e  rispettabile  il  mio  Manto  ! — Mi  pare,  die  voi  siete  assai  irre- 
cordevole  della  vostra  povera  piccola  !  Questi  i  vostri  lunghi  ailemi, 
questa  la  vostra  lunga  assenza  mi  divengono  noiosa.  Ritornaie,  mio 
Marito,  ritornate,  in  name  di  Bio,  alia  vostra  casa  !  In  vano  stima- 
bili  Signori  vengono  in  gran  numero  mi  far'  adorazione  !  In  varns 
rnangio  came  diporco,  e  ricomincio  esser  una  bella  Gooda  !  In  vano 
mi  sforzo  m'  occupare,  7ni  divertire,  mi  fare  contenta  !  Nell'  assenza 
del  mio  Marito  rimango  sempre  inquieta,  sempre  perduta  !  8e  perd 
roi  trovatevi  meglio  neV  paese,  se  la  preziosa  vostra  sanitd  diviene  piii 
forte,  la  vostra  anima  piu  chiara  piii  tranquilla,  non  avete  pensiero 
di  me.  Bisogna  ch'  io  sottometta  la  mia  voglia  alia  vostra  prosperita  ; 
efarb  il  piii  meglio  possibile  d'esser  paziente. 

Ecco  come  sono  staia  studiosa,  mio  Marito!  Questa  bellissima 
Ifaliana  k  scritta  senza  dizionario,  senza  studio,  con  penna  corrente. 
Il  Conte  di  Pepoli  si  maraviglia  al  divino  mio  talento;  lascia  i  suoi 
alii  coynplimenti ;  e  dice  solamente  m  sotto  voce,  'Ah  graziosa!  Ah 
bella  bella  !    Ah,  ah  !' 

Dear  my  husband,— You  have  probably  enough  of  this,  as  well 
as  I;  so  now  in  English  I  repeat  that  I  expect  with  impatience  the 
letter  which  is  to  fix  your  return.  So  long,  I  have  reason  to  be 
thankful  that  I  have  been  borne  through  with  an  honourable 
through-bearing.  1  Except  for  two  days  before  your  last  letter 
arrived,  I  flatter  myself  I  have  been  conducting  myself  with  a  quite 
exemplary  patience  and  good  nature  towards  all  men,  women,  and 
inanimate  things.  Ecco  la  bella  prova  di  che,  Sereetha  sta  sempre  qui, 
e  la  mia  Madre  ed  io  non  siamo  ancx)r  imbrogliate. 

What  a  world  of  beautiful  effort  you  have  had  to  expend  on  this 
matter  of  the  servant!  Heaven  grant  it  may  be  blessed  tons!  I 
do  not  know  well  why;  but  I  like  the  abstract  idea  of  this  woman « 
now  much  better  than  the  other.  It  seemed  to  me  rather  an  objec- 
tion to  the  other  that  she  had  a  brother  a  baker.  The  bakers,  you 
know,  trade  in  servants  here,  and  he  would  probably  have  soon  been 
recommendmg  her  into  more  exalted  place.  Moreover,  it  was 
thought  displeasing  to  me  that  she  had  been  educated  in  the  school 
of  country  gigmanism.     Macturkdom-ism,  and  Gillenbie-rig-ism«  is 

'  Helpless  phrase  of  a  certain  conceited  extempore  preacher, 

'  Anne  Cook. 

»  Annandale  'genteel '  places  or  persons. 


JANE  -WELSH  CARLYLE.  25 

just  as  hateful  or  more  hateful  to  me  than  Devonshire-house-ism. 
The  'uzing'  woman,  of  tarnished  virtue,'  will  suit,  I  think,  much 
better.  In  fact,  it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  say  that  an  Annan- 
dale  woman's  virtue  is  the  worse  for  a  misfortune.  I  am  certain 
that,  in  their  circumstances,  with  their  views  and  examples,  I  should 
have  had  one  too,  if  not  more!  And  now  that  the  best  is  done 
which  could  be  done,  let  us  quiet  ourselves,  and  look  with  equan- 
imity towards  the  issue.  If  she  does  not  do  better  than  ihose  ihat 
have  gone  before,  if  no  grown  servant  any  longer  exists  on  this 
earth,  why,  we  can  certainly  manage  with  an  ungrown  one. 
Sereetha  has  hardly  been  a  fair  trial  of  the  little-girl  plan ;  but  she  has 
been  a  trial,  and  I  am  confident  of  being  able  to  get  on  quite  peace- 
ably with  one  of  such  little  girls  as,  I  doubt  not,  are  to  be  found  m 
plenty;  with  only  a  giving  up  of  a  few  hours  of  my  own  time, 
which  might  easily  be  worse  spent,  and  the  sacrifice  of  the  beauty 
and  ladylikeness  of  my  hands.  For  economy,  little,  I  find,  is  to  be 
gained  by  the  substitution  of  a  child  for  a  woman.  The  washing 
runs  away  with  all  the  difference  in  wages,  and  their  consumption 
of  victual  is  much  the  same.  But  then  the  things  are  washed 
beautifully;  and  I  clean  beautifully  when  you  do  not  dishearten  me 
with  hypercriticism.  So  never  fear,  dearest!  Never  fear  about 
that,  or  anything  else  under  heaven.  Try  all  that  ever  you  can  to  be 
patient  and  good-natured  with  your  povera  piccola  Gooda,^  and  then 
she  loves  j'ou,  and  is  ready  to  do  anything  on  earth  that  you  wish; 
to  fly  over  the  moon,  if  you  bade  her.  But  when  the  signor  delta 
casa  has  neither  kind  look  nor  word  for  me,  what  can  I  do  but 
grow  desperate,  fret  myself  to  tiddlestrings,  and  be  a  torment  to 
society  in  every  direction  ?2 

Poiche  i  giorni  divengono  si  freddi,  la  rispettaUle  mia  Signora 
Madre  diviene  infelice  assai,  e  di  molto  cattim  urnore.  Ma  io  sono  a 
presente  d'un  umore  divino!  et  tutto  va  mediocremente  bene!  Mr. 
Gibson  comes  to  morrow  to  take  me — to  prison.     I  believe  the 


'  Appears  to  have  had  what  they  call  a  '  misfortune '  there.    The  uzxag, 
some  misfeature  of  pronunciation,  which  I  have  now  forgotten. 

"  Goody,  with  diminutives '  Qoodykin,'  &c.,  the  common  name  she  had  from 
me. 

'  A  poor,  but  lively  and  healthy,  half -idiot  and  street  beggar,  in  Birming- 
ham, whom  I  had  grown  used  to,  the  dirtiest  and  raggedest  of  human  beings 
(face  never  washed,  beard  a  fortnight  old,  knee-breeches  slit  at  the  sides,  and 
become  V.nee-aprons,  flapping  to  and  fro  over  bare,  dirty  legs),  said,  one  day, 
imder  my  window,  while  somebody  was  vainly  attempting  to  chafe  him, 
'  Damn  thee,  I's  an  ornament  to  society  m  every  direction.'— T.  C. 
L-8 


26  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

King's  Bench,  &c.  Quello  Signor  e,  per  mia  Madre,  il  solo  angelo 
di  bontd  qui,  nella  noMle  citid.  Tutti  i  iniei  signori  e  signore  (a  meno 
il  leggkldro  Conte  ')  sono  per  lei  fasiidiose  persone.  Other  sights  W6 
have  seen  none,  except  the  British  Museum  and  the  King  and 
Queen.  Tlieir  majesties  very  opportunely  came  to  visit  the  Col- 
lege,**  and  the  fact  being  made  known  to  me  by  the  beggar-woman 
from  New  Street  (with  the  cobweb  shawl),  I  hurried  off  my  mother 
to  the  place,  where,  without  being  kept  waiting  above  five  minutes, 
we  saw  them  walk  past  our  very  noses. 

My  mother's  enthusiasm  of  loyalty  on  the  occasion  was  a  sight 
for  sore  eyes!  'Poor  Queen,  after  all!'^  She  looked  so  frost- 
bitten and  anxious!  curtsied,  with  such  a  cowering  hurriedness,  to 
the  veriest  rabble  that  ever  was  seen.  I  was  wae  to  look  at  her, 
wae  to  think  of  her,  when  I  heard  that  the  very  same  night  they 
hissed  her  at  one  of  the  theatres !  Poor  thing !  She  would  have 
done  rather  well,  I  do  believe,  looking  after  the  burning  of  her  cin- 
ders!* But  a  Queen  of  England  in  these  days!  The  British 
Museum  charmed  my  mother,  and  I  myself  was  affected  beyond 
measure  by  the  Elgin  marbles.  We  went  after  to  lunch  with  the 
Donaldsons.^     ' The  kindness  of  these  people! '  ^ 

On  that  day  I  came,  saw,  and  bought — a  sofa!  It  is  my  own 
purchase,  but  you  shall  share  the  possession.  Indeed,  so  soon  as 
you  set  eyes  on  it  and  behold  its  vastness,  its  simple  greatness,  you 
will  perceive  that  the  thought  of  you  was  actively  at  work  in  my 
choice.  It  was  neither  dear  nor  cheap,''  but  a  bargain  neverthe- 
less, being  second-hand;  and  so  good  a  second-hand  one  is  not,  I 
should  think,  often  to  be  met.  Oh,  it  is  so  soft!  so  easy!  and  one 
of  us,  or  both,  may  sleep  in  it,  should  occasion  require — I  mean  for 


•  Pepoli.  '  Chelsea  Hospital, 
s  '  Poor  fellow,  after  all ! '  a  phrase  of  brother  John's. 

*  William  IV.,  soon  after  his  accession,  determined  one  day  to  see  his  cellar- 
regions  at  Windsor,  came  upon  a  vast  apartment  filled  merely  with  waste 
masses  of  cinders :  'What  are  these?'  asked  his  Majesty  astonished.  Atten- 
dant oCacials  obsequiously  explained.  '  It  seems  to  me  those  would  burn ! ' 
said  his  Majesty,  kicking  the  cinders  with  his  boot;  and  walked  on. — Newa- 
paper  of  the  time. 

'  A  Haddington  family.  Dr.  Donaldson  (of  Cambridge  celebrity,  &c.)  eldest 
son  then.  *  Phrase  of  Irving's. 

'  Melancholy  shopkeeper  in  Lamb's  Conduit  Street  (in  1831,  whom  she  ever 
afterwards  dealt  with,  for  what  he  sold)  had  stated,  in  answer  to  a  puppy- 
kind  of  customer,  the  how -much  of  something.  Puppy  replied :  '  D'you  call 
that  cheap? '  Whereupon  answer,  in  a  tone  of  mournful  indifference:  '  I  call 
it  neither  cheap  nor  dear;  but  just  the  price  of  the  article.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  37 

all  night.  It  will  sell  again  at  any  time;  it  is  so  sufficient  an  article. 
With  my  velvet  gown,  I  shall  need  no  great  outlay  for  Putz  this 
winter,  so  I  thought  I  might  fairly  indulge  ourselves  in  a  sofa  at 
last. 

The  Stiinabile  conducts  himself  in  a  quite  exemplary  manner 
since  you  went,  coming  but  once,  or  at  most  twice,  in  the  week. 
I  fear,  however,  we  must  not  give  him  too  much  credit  for  his  self- 
denial;  but  rather  impute  it,  in  part,  to  his  impossibility  of  getting 
at  ease  with  my  mother,  and  also  to  some  rather  violent  political 
arguments  which  he  has  had  of  late  with  mj^self.  All  the  men 
take  fright  sooner  or  later  at  my  violence — (ant  mieuxf  John  I 
seldom  see;  he  is  so  occupied  in  waiting  upon  his  wife.  He  came 
one  night  last  week  with  his  mother  to  meet  the  Cunninghams. 
Mrs.  S.  wished  to  know  Allan.  It  went  ofE  wonderfully  well,  con- 
sidering Sereetha  was  our  sole  waiter! 

There  is  nothing  in  the  note.'  Miss  Elliot's  address  was  written 
on  it  in  pencil,  which  I  interpreted  to  express  an  expectation  that 
you  would  call  for  her.  I  wrote  her,  therefore,  a  courteous  little 
note,  stating  tliat  you  were  in  Scotland,  &c.,  &c. ;  that  I,  &c.,  &c., 
would  be  glad  to  see  her  here,  &c.,  &c. 

Mother's  love,  of  course.  Can  you  bring  her  from  Duncan, 
Dumfries,  one  gross  of  pills?  He  has  her  prescription.  My  head 
has  troubled  me  a  little  of  late  days,  but  I  continue  generally  much 
better.  Special  love  to  your  mother,  and  a  kiss  to  my  Jane's  j^ic- 
cola/^  Mill  told  me  it  was  nest  to  impossible  for  him  to  realise  a 
frank,  so  I  need  not  waste  time  sending  him  this.  I  have  hardly 
room  to  send  love  to  them  all ;  and  to  you,  dear,  kisses  senza  mi- 
sura/  Mrs.  Cole  came  for  a  day;  her  husband  in  the  evening; 
talkative,  niceish  people. 

My  dressing-gown  'likes  me  very  much.'  A  thousand  thanks! 
And  the  hams!  Oh,  I  am  glad  of  them!  This  one  is  near  done. 
Think  you  one  could  have  a  little  keg  of  salt  herrings  sent  at  the 
same  time? 

[No  signature.  These  last  little  paragraphs  are  crowded  in  upon 
every  margin  and  vacant  space,  so  that  there  is  not  a  bit  of  blank 
more.— T.  C] 


*  Note  inclosed,  from  Miss  Elliot,  an  acquaintance  of  Lady  Clare's  and  my 
brother's. 
»  The  now  'Annie  Altken,'  I  suppose. 


28  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


LETTER  11. 

Mrs.  Welsh  came  to  us  in  the  last  days  in  August,  by  an  Edin- 
burgh steamer.  I  was  waiting  at  the  St.  Katherine  Dock,  in  a 
bright  afternoon;  pleasant  meeting,  pleasant  voj'age  up  the  river  in 
our  wherry;  and  such  a  welcome  here  at  home  as  may  be  fancied. 
About  tlie  end  of  next  month  I  l)ad  finished  my  burnt  MS. ;  and 
seem  Ihen  to  have  ruu  for  Scotsbrig,  and  been  there  periiaps  three 
weeks  (scarcely  a  detail  of  it  now  clear  to  me)  in  October  following. 
I  was  sickly  of  bod}"^  and  miad,  felt  heavj'laden,  and  without  any 
hope  but  the  '  desperate'  Ivind,  which  I  alwaj^s  did  hold  fast.  Our 
Irish  Catholic  housemaid  proved  a  mutinous  Irish  savage  (had  a 
fixed  persuasion,  I  could  notice,  that  our  poor  house  and  we  had 
been  made  for  her,  and  had  gone  awry  in  the  process).  One  even- 
ing, while  all  seated  for  supper,'  Eliza  Miles  and  we  too,  the  indig- 
nant savage,  jingling  down  her  plates  as  if  she  had  been  playing 
quoits,  was  instantaneously  dismissed  by  me  ('  To  your  room  at 
once;  wages  tomorrow  morning;  disappear!'),  so  that  the  bring- 
ing of  a  Scotch  serv'ant  w-as  one  of  my  express  errands.  'Anne 
Cook,'  accordingly,  and  the  journey  with  her  by  steamer  from  An- 
nan, hy  '  Umpire  coach '  from  Liverpool,  some  forty  or  fifty  hours, 
all  in  a  piece,  is  dismally  memorable!  Breakfast  at  Newport  Pag- 
uell  (I  liad  given  Anne  the  inside  place,  niglit  being  cold  and  wet); 
awkward,  hungry  Anne  would  hardly  even  eat,  till  bidden  and 
directed  by  me.  Landing  in  Holboru,  half  dead,  bright  Sunday 
afternoon,  amidst  a  crowd  of  porters,  cabmen,  hungry  officials, 
some  seven  or  ten  of  them,  ravenous  for  sixpences  and  shillings, 
till  at  length  I  shut  the  cab-door.  '  To  no  person  will  I  pay  any- 
thing more  at  this  time! '  and  drove  off,  amid  a  general  laugh,  not 
ill-humoured,  from  the  recognising  miscellany.  Drive  home,  sur- 
rounded by  luggage,  and  with  Anne  for  compan}'',  seemed  endless. 
I  landed  at  this  door  in  a  state  of  misery,  more  like  mad  than  sane; 
but  my  darling  was  in  the  lobby;  saw  at  a  glance  how  it  was,  and 
almost  without  speaking,  brought  me  to  my  room,  and  with  me  a 
big  glass,  almost  a  goblet,  of  the  best  sherry:  'Drink  that,  dear,  at 
a  draught!'  Never  in  my  life  liad  I  such  a  medicine!  Shaved, 
washed,  got  into  clean  clothes,  I  stepped  down  quite  new-made, 
and  thanking  Heaven  for  such  a  doctor. 

Mrs.  "Welsh  went  away  a  few  weeks  after  to  Liverpool,  to  her 
brother  John's  there — favourite  and  now  only  brother — a  brave  and 
generous  man,  much  liked  by  all  of  us. 

John  Sterling  had  turned  up  in  the  early  part  of  this  year,  John 
Sterling,  and  with  him  all  the  Sterlings,  which  was  an  immense 
acquisition  to  us  for  the  ten  years  that  followed,  as  is  abundantly 
betokened  in  the  letter  that  now  follows. — T.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  39 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Dec.  23, 1835. 

My  dear  Mother,— You  are  to  look  upon  it  as  the  most  positive 
proof  of  my  regard  that  I  write  to  you  in  my  present  circumstances; 
that  is  to  say,  with  the  blood  all  frozen  in  my  brains,  and  my  brains 
turned  to  a  solid  mass  of  ice ;  for  such  has,  for  several  days,  been 
the  too  cruel  lot  of  your  poor  little  daughter-in-law  at  Lunnon;  the 
general  lot  indeed  of  all  Luiuion,  so  far  as  I  can  observe.  When 
the  frost  comes  here,  '  it  comes,'  as  the  woman  said  with  the  four 
eggs ' ;  and  it  seems  to  be  somehow  more  difficult  to  guard  against 
it  here  than  elsewhere;  for  all  the  world  immediately  takes  to 
coughing  and  blowing  its  nose  with  a  fury  quite  appalling.  The 
noise  thus  created  destroys  the  suffering  remnant  *  of  senses  spared 
by  the  cold,  and  makes  the  writing  of  a  letter,  or  any  other  employ- 
ment in  which  thought  is  concerned,  seem  almost  a  tempting  of 
Providence.  Nevertheless,  I  am  here  to  tell  you  that  we  are  still 
in  the  land  of  the  living,  and  thinking  of  you  all,  from  yourself, 
the  head  of  the  nation,  down  to  that  very  least  and  fattest  child, 
who,  I  hope,  will  continue  to  grow  fatter  and  fatter  till  I  come  to 
see  it  with  my  own  eyes.  I  count  this  fatness  a  good  omen  for  the 
whole  family;  it  betokens  good-nature,  which  is  a  quality  too  rare 
among  us.  Those  '  long,  sprawling,  ill-put-together '  ^  children  give 
early  promise  of  being  '  gey  ill  to  deal  wi'.'  ^ 

That  one  of  them  who  is  fallen  to  my  share  conducts  himself 
pretty  peaceably  at  present;  writing  only  in  the  forenoons.  He 
has  finished  a  chapter  much  to  my  satisfaction;  and  the  poor  book 
begins  to  hold  up  its  head  again.  Our  situation  is  farther  improved 
by  the  introduction  of  Anne  Cook  into  the  establishment,  instead 
of  the  distracted  Roman  Catholics  and  distracted  Protestants  who 
preceded  her.  She  seems  an  assiduous,  kindly,  honest,  and  thrifty 
creature;  and  will  learn  to  do  all  I  want  with  her  quite  easily. 
For  the  rest,  she  amuses  me  every  hour  of  the  day  with  her  perfect 
incomprehension  of  everything  like  ceremon3^     I  was  helping  her 

'  '  When  I  come,'  I  come,  laying  down  her  gift  of  four  eggs. 

'  '  Suffering  Remnant,'  so  the  Cameronians  called  themselves  in  Claver- 
house's  time. 

»  'A  lank,  sprawling,  ill-put-together  thing.'  Such  had  been  my  mother's 
definition  to  her  of  me  as  a  nurseling. 

*  '  Thou's  gey '  (pretty,  pronounced  gyei)  '  ill  to  deal  wi'  '—mother's  allocu- 
tion to  me  once,  in  some  unreasonable  moment  of  mine. 


30  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

to  wring  a  sheet  one  day.  while  she  had  the  cut  finger,  and  she 
told  me  flatly  it  was  '  clean  aboon  my  fit '  (ability).  '  I  shall  get  at 
it  by  practice,'  said  I;  'far  weaker  people  than  I  have  wrung 
sheets.'  'May  be  sae,'  returned  she  very  coolly;  'but  I  ken-na 
where  ye'll  find  ony  weaker,  for  a  weaklier  like  cretur  I  never  saw 
in  a'  my  life.'  Another  time,  when  Carlyle  had  been  off  his  sleep 
for  a  night  or  two,  she  came  to  me  at  bedtime  to  ask,  '  If  Mr.  Car- 
lyle bees  ony  uneasy  through  the  nicht,  and's  ga'an  staiverBn'  aboot 
the  hoose,  will  ye  bid  him  gae  us  a  cry'-*  at  five  in  the  morning? ' 

We  may  infer,  however,  that  she  is  getting  more  civilisation, 
from  the  entire  change  in  her  ideas  respecting  tlie  handsome  Italian 
Count 3;  for,  instead  of  calling  him  'afley  (fright)-some  body'  any 
longer,  she  is  of  opinion  that  he  is  'a  real  tine  man,  and  nane  that 
comes  can  ever  be  named  in  ae  day  with  him.'  Nay,  I  notice  that 
she  puts  on  a  certain  net  cap  with  a  most  peculiar  knot  of  ribbons 
every  time  she  knows  of  his  coming.  The  reward  of  which  act  is 
an  '  I  weesh  you  good  day '  when  she  lets  him  out.  So  much  for 
poor  Anne,  who,  I  hope,  will  long  continue  to  flourish  in  the  land. 

I  am  much  better  off  this  winter  for  society  than  I  was  last. 
Mrs.  Sterling  makes  the  greatest  possible  change  for  me.  She  is 
so  good,  so  sincerely  and  unvaryingly  kind,  that  I  feel  to  her  as  to 
a  third  mother.  Whenever  I  have  blue  devils,  I  need  but  put  on 
my  bonnet  and  run  off  to  her,  and  the  smile  in  her  eyes  restores  me 
to  instant  good  humour.  Her  husband  would  go  through  fire  and 
water  for  me;  and  if  there  were  a  third  worse  element,  would  go 
through  that  also.  The  son  is  devoted  to  Carlyle,  and  makes  him  a 
real  friend,  which,  among  all  his  various  intimate  acquaintances  and 
well-wishers,  he  cannot  be  said  ever  to  have  had  before:  this  family, 
then,  is  a  great  blessing  to  us.  And  so  has  been  my  study  of 
Italian,  which  has  helped  me  through  many  dullish  hours.  I  never 
feel  anything  like  youth  about  rne  except  when  I  am  learning  some- 
thing; and  when  I  am  turning  over  the  leaves  of  my  Italian  dic- 
tionary, I  could  fancy  myself  thirteen:  whether  there  be  any  good 
in  fancying  oneself  thirteen  after  one  is  turned  of  thirty,  I  leave 
your  charity  to  determine. 

We  sit  in  hourly,  nay,  in  momentary,  expectation  of  the  meal, 
&c.,  which  has  not  yet  arrived,  but  will  soon,  I  am  sure;  for  I 
dreamt  two  nights  since  that  I  saw  them  fetching  it  out  of  the  wag- 
gon: meanwhile,  we  sup  on  arrowroot  and  milk;  the  little  bag 
being  done. 

1  Stumbling.  «  Awaken  us.  '  Count  Pepoli. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  81 

Dear  mother,  excuse  all  this  blash'  in  consideration  that  I  really 
have  a  very  bad  cold,  which  I  am  resolved,  however,  to  be  rid  of 
on  Christmas  Day  (the  day  after  to-morrow)  on  which  I  am  engaged 
to  dine  at  the  Sterlings'.  Ever  since  I  killed  the  goose  at  Craigen- 
puttock  (with  the  determination  to  make  a  Christmas  pie  in  spite  of 
nature  and  fate),  and  immediately  thereupon  took  a  sore  throat,  my 
Christmas  days  have  found  me  ill,  or  in  some  way  unlucky.  Last 
year  I  was  lying  horizontal  with  ray  burnt  foot;  this  year,  then,  I 
am  very  desirous  to  break  the  spell,  and  Mrs.  Sterling  makes  a 
ploy  for  the  purpose. 

God  keep  you  all,  and  make  your  new  year  no  worse,  and,  if 
may  be,  better,  than  all  that  have  preceded  it. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

[That  'sore  foot  of  Christmas  last,'  which  has  never  otherwise 
been  forgotten  by  me,  now  dates  itself.  She  was  in  the  kitchen 
one  evening,  upon  some  experiment  or  other;  pouring  or  being 
poured  to  from  a  boiling  kettle,  got  a  splash  on  her  poor  little  foot, 
instantly  ran  with  it  to  the  pump  (following  some  recent  precept  in 
the  newspapers),  and  then  had  it  pumped  upon  till  quite  cold, 
which,  indeed,  'cured'  it  for  about  four-and- twenty  hours;  and 
then  it  began  anew,  worse  than  ever.  It  seems  to  me  to  have  lasted 
for  weeks.  Never  did  I  see  such  patience  under  total  lameness  and 
imprisonment.  Hurt  was  on  the  instep.  No  doctor's  advice  had 
been  dreamt  of ;  'a  little  wound,  don't  hurt  it,  keep  it  clean;  what 
more?'— and  it  would  not  heal.  For  weeks  I  carried  her  upstairs 
nightly  to  her  bed — ever  cheerful,  hopeful  one.  At  length,  one 
Willis,  a  medical  acquaintance,  called;  found  that  it  needed  only  a 
bandage — bandaged  it  there  and  then;  and  in  two  days  more  it  was 
as  good  as  well,  and  never  heard  of  again.  Oh,  my  poor  little 
woman!— become  'poor'  for  me!] — T.  C. 

LETTER  13. 

Helen  Welsh  was  the  daughter  of  John  Welsh,  of  Liverpool, 
Mrs.  Carlyle's  uncle  on  her  mother's  side.  See  an  account  of  him 
in  the  'Reminiscences,'  vol.  2,  p.  143. — J.  A.  F. 

To  Miss  Helen  Welsh,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  April  1,  1836. 
My  dear  Cousinkin, — I  am  charmed  to  notice  in  you  the  rapid 
growth  of  a  virtue,  which  for  the  most  part  only  develops  itself  ia 
mature  age,  after  many  and  hard  experiences;  but  which  is,  never- 

>  Watery  stuff. 


32  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

theless,  highly  necessary  at  all  ages,  in  this  world  of  sin  and  misery. 
I  mean  the  virtue  of  toleration.  Rarely  is  one  edified  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  so  young  a  lady,  meekly  acknowledging  her  own  transgres- 
sions and  shortcomings,  when,  with  perfect  justice,  she  might  have 
adopted  rather  the  tone  of  accusation.  Continue,  my  sweet  little 
cousin,  to  cultivate  this  engaging  disposition ;  this  beautiful  sensi- 
bility to  your  own  imperfections,  and  beautiful  insensibility  to  the 
imperfections  of  your  neighbour,  and  you  will  become  (if  indeed 
you  are  not  such  already)  an  ornament  to  your  sex,  and  a  credit  to 
'  the  name  of  Welsh'  (which  my  mother  talks  about  so  proudly;  I 
could  never  tell  precisely  why). 

In  truth  you  will  have  added  a  new  lustre  of  virtue  to  that  name, 
which  I  never  hoped  to  see  it  brightened  with;  for,  as  my  Penfillan 
grandfather's  physiological  observations  on  his  stock  had  led  him 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  capable  of  producing  rascals  and  vag- 
abonds enough,  but  not  one  solitary  instance  of  a  blockhead,  so 
mine  had  hitherto  tended  to  certify  me  that  '  the  name  of  Welsh ' 
had  something  in  it  wholly  and  everlastingly  antipathetical  to  patience 
and  toleration,  and  was  no  more  capable  of  coalescing  with  it  than 
fire  with  water. 

The  box  came  safe,  as  did  also  the  herrings  and  the  brandy; 
shame  to  me  that  I  should  be  now  for  the  first  time  acknowledging 
them  all  in  the  lump !  But  I  trust  that  my  mother  reported  my 
thanks,  as  she  was  charged  to  do ;  and  that  however  much  you  may 
all  have  blamed  my  laziness,  you  have  not  suspected  me  of  the 
atrocious  sin  of  ingratitude,  'alike  hateful  to  gods  and  men:' at 
least  it  used  to  be  so;  but  now  that  it  is  so  common  in  the  world, 
people  are  getting  into  the  way  of  regarding  it,  I  suppose,  as  they 
do  other  fashionable  vices,  '  with  one  eye  shut  and  the  other  not 
open '  (as  an  Irish  author  said  to  me  the  other  day  in  describing  his 
manner  of  reading  a  certain  journal).  Rogers,  the  poet,  who  pro- 
fessed to  be  a  man  of  extensive  beneficence,  and  to  have  befriended 
necessitous  persons  without  number  in  the  course  of  his  long  life, 
declares  that  he  never  met  with  gratitude  but  in  three  instances.  I 
have  a  mind  to  ask  him  to  do  something  for  me,  just  that  he  maj' 
have  the  pleasure  of  swelling  his  beggarly  list  of  grateful  people  to 
four.  'For  the  name  of  Welsh,'  I  flatter  myself,  cherishes  the  old 
Athenian  notions  about  gratitude. 

We  are  labouring  under  a  visitation  of  rain  here,  which  seems  to 
portend  the  destruction  of  the  world  by  deluge. 

One  feels  soaked  to  the  very  heart ;  no  warmth  or  pith  remaining 


JANE   WELSH  CARLYLE.  33 

in  one.  As  one  fire  is  understood  to  drive  out  anotlier,  I  thouglit 
one  water  might  drive  out  another  also;  and  so  this  moruing  I  took 
a  shower-bath,  and  have  shivered  ever  since,  '  Too  much  water 
hadst  thou,  poor  Ophelia! ' 

0  Helen!  what  a  fearful  recollection  I  have  at  this  instant  of 
your  shower-bathing  at  Moffat!  It  was  indeed  the  sublime  of 
shower-bathing,  the  human  mind  stands  astonished  before  it,  as 
before  the  Infinite.  In  fact,  you  have  ever  since  figured  in  my 
imagination  as  a  sort  of  Undine. 

Barring  the  weather,  everything  goes  on  here  in  the  usual  way : 
people  eat  eight  o'clock  dinners  together;  talk  politics,  philosophy, 
folly  together;  attend  what  they  call  their  business  at  '  the  House,' 
or  where  else  it  may  happen  to  be ;  and  fill  up  the  intervals  with 
vapours,  and  something  that  goes  by  the  name  of  '  checked  perspira- 
tion;' but  I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  what  that  precisely  means;  it 
seems  to  comprehend  every  malady  that  flesh  is  heir  to;  and  for  my 
part,  as  the  cockney  said  to  Allan  Cunningham  of  the  lottery,  '  I 
am  deadly  sure  there  is  a  do  at  the  bottom  on  it ! ' 

We  expect  John  Carlyle  in  some  ten  days;  for  this  time  his  lady 
will  surely,  for  decency's  sake,  stick  to  her  purpose,  lady  of  quality 
though  she  be!  I  am  afraid  he  is  not  a  man  for  grappling  in  a 
cunning  manner  with  '  checked  perspiration ;'  and  accordingly,  that 
there  is  small  hope  of  his  getting  into  profitable  employment  here 
as  a  doctor.  "We  do  not  know  even  yet  if  he  will  try;  but  time  will 
settle  that  and  much  else  that  waits  to  be  settled.  In  the  mean- 
while there  were  no  sense  in  worrying  over  schemes  for  a  future, 
■which  we  may  not  live  to  see.  '  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof ' — at  present  more  than  sufficient. 

Two  of  our  dearest  friends  are  dangerously  ill;  John  Mill,  whom 
you  have  often  heard  me  speak  of,  and  John  Sterling,  whose  novel, 
'  Arthur  Coningsby,'  I  think  I  lent  you  at  Templand. 

My  husband  is  anything  but  well,  nor  likely  to  be  belter  till  he 
have  finished  his  'French  Revolution,'  of  which  there  is  still  a 
volume  to  write :  he  works  beyond  his  strength. 

1  myself  have  been  abominably  all  winter,  though  not  writing,  so 
far  as  I  know,  for  the  press.  And  more  evil  still  is  lying  even  now 
while  I  write,  at  the  bottom  of  my  pocket,  in  shape  of  a  letter  from 
Annan,  requiring  mc  lo'send  off,  without  delay,  the  servant  whom 
Carlyle  so  bothered  himself  to  fetch  me:  her  mother  being  at  the 
point  of  death,  and  'will  not,'  says  the  letter-writer,  'leave  the 
charge  of  the  house  to  any  other  than  her  dear  Anne '  1    What  is  to 

2* 


34  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

be  the  consequence  if  Anne  do  not  obey  this  hurried  summons,  the 
letter-writer  does  not  state.  One  is  left  to  conjecture  that  the  poor 
woman  will  either  take  the  house  along  with  her,  or  stay  where  she 
is  till  she  can  get  it  settled  to  her  mind ;  in  which  last  case  it  is 
better  for  all  parties  that  my  maid  should  stay  where  she  is.  I  am 
excessively  perplexed.  Happy  cousinkin,  that  hast,  as  yet,  no 
household  imbroglios  to  fetter  thy  glad  movement  through  life. 
My  husband  sends  affectionate  regards,  to  be  distributed  along  with 
mine  at  your  discretion.  You  may  also  add  a  few  kisses  on  my 
account. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlyle. 


[Soon  after  the  date  of  the  last  letter  Mrs.  Carlyle  became  ex- 
tremely ill.     June  brought  hot  weather,  and  she  grew  worse  and 
worse.     Carlyle  was  working   at  the   'French  Revolution.'    His 
'  nervous  system '  was  '  in  a  flame.'    At  such  times  he  could  think 
of  nothing  but  the  matter  which  lie  had  in  hand,  and  a  sick  wife 
was  a  bad  companion  for  him.     She  felt  at  last  that  unless  '  she 
could  get  out  of  London  she  would  surely  die,'  and  she  escaped  to 
Scotland  to  her  mother.     She  went  by  Liverpool,  and  thence  for 
economj^  she  intended  to  go  on  by  steamer  to  Annan.     At  sea  she 
suffered'  more  than  most  people.     Her  Liverpool  uncle  paid  her  fare 
in  the  mail  to  Dumfries,  gave  her  a  warm  handsome  shawl  as  a 
birthday  present  (July  14),  and  sent  her  forward  under  better  aus- 
pices.     Mrs.  Welsh  was  waiting  to  receive  her  at  the  Dumfries 
Coach  Office — '  such  an  embracing  and  such  a  crying,'  she  said, '  the 
very  "boots"  was  affected  with  it  and  spoke  in  a  plaintive  voice  all 
the  morning  after."    At  Templand  she  met  the  w^armest  welcome. 
Mrs.  Welsh  gave  her  (for  her  birtliday  also)  a  purse  of  her  own 
working,  filled  with  sovereigns.     Slie  had  all  the  care  and  nursing 
which  affection  could  bestow,  but  sleeplessness,  cough,  and  head- 
ache refused  to  leave  hold  of  lier.     Her  health  scarcely  mended, 
and  after  two  months'  trial  'desperate  of  everj^thing  here  below,' 
she  returned  to  Cheyne  Row,  in  August.     She  came  back,  as  she 
described  herself,  '  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  woman,'  to  find  recovered 
health  at  home.     '  I  ought  not  to  regret  my  flight  into  Scotland,' 
she  wrote  to  Miss  Hunter,  '  since  it  lias  made  me  take  with  new  rel- 
ish to  London.     It  is  a  strange  praise  to  bestow  on  the  Metropolis 
of  the  world,  but  I  find  it  so  delightfully  still  here!  not  so  much 
as  a  cock  crowing  to  startle  nervous  subjects  out  of  their  sleep; 
and  during  the  day  no  inevitable  Mrs.  this  or  Miss  that,  brimful  of 
all  the  gossip  for  twenty  miles  around,  interrupting  your  serious 
pursuits  (whatever  they  may  be)  with  calls  of  a  duration  happily 
unknown  in  cities.     The  feeling  of  calm,  of  safety,  of  liberty  which 
came  over  me  on  re-entering  my  own  house  was  really  the  most 
blessed  I  had  felt  for  a  great  while.     Soon,  through  the  medium  of 
this  feeling,  the  house  itself  and  everything  about  it,  even  my  An- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  85 

nandale  maid,  presented  a  sort  of  earnest  classic  appearance  to  my 
first  regards,  whicli  is  hardly  yet  worn  off." 

It  was  the  dead  season;  but  there  were  a  few  persons  still  iu 
London,  who  came  occasionally  to  Cheyne  Row,  one  of  them  a  re- 
markable man  of  a  remarkable  family,  who,  for  several  j^ears  was 
very  intimate  there,  and  was  then  in  exile  for  conspiracy  against 
Louis  Philippe.     Mrs.  Carlyle  thus  describes  him: — 

'  We  have  another  foreigner  who  beats  all  the  rest  to  sticks,  a 
French  Republican  of  the  right  thorough-going  sort,  an  "accuse 
d'Avril,"  who  has  had  the  glory  of  meriting  to  be  imprisoned  ar.d 
nearly  losing  his  head;  a  man  with  tliat  sort  of  dark  half-savage 
beauty  Avith  which  one  paints  a  fallen  angel,  who  fears  neither 
heaven  nor  earth,  for  aught  one  can  see,  who  tights  and  writes 
with  the  same  passionate  intrepidity,  who  is  ready  to  dare  or  suffer, 
to  live  or  to  die  without  disturbing  himself  much  about  the  matter; 
who  defies  all  men. and  honours,  all  women,  and  who.se  name  is 
Cavaignac  '  (Godefroi,  brother  of  the  future  President. — J,  A.  F.] 


LETTER  13. 

To  Mrs.  Welsh,  Maryland  Street,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  Sept.  5,  1836. 

My  dear  Aunt, — Now  that  I  am  fairly  settled  at  home  again,  and 
can  look  back  over  my  late  travels  with  the  coolness  of  a  specta- 
tor, it  seems  to  me  that  I  must  have  tired  out  all  men,  women,  and 
children  that  have  had  to  do  with  me  by  the  road.  The  proverb 
says  '  there  is  much  ado  when  cadgers  ride.'  I  do  not  know  pre- 
cisely what  '  cadger '  means,  but  I  imagine  it  to  be  a  character  like 
me,  liable  to  headache,  to  sea-sickness,  to  all  the  infirmities  '  that 
flesh  is  heir  to,'  and  a  few  others  besides;  the  friends  and  relations 
of  cadgers  should  therefore  use  all  soft  persuasions  to  induce  them 
to  remain  at  home. 

I  got  into  that  Mail  the  other  night  with  as  much  repugnance 
and  trepidation  as  if  it  had  been  a  Phalaris'  brazen  bull,  instead  of 
a  Christian  vehicle,  invented  for  purposes  of  mercy — not  of  cruelty. 
There  were  three  besides  myself  when  we  started,  but  two  dropped 
off  at  the  end  of  the  first  stage,  and  the  rest  of  the  way  I  had,  a.'< 
usual,  half  of  the  coach  to  myself.  My  fellow-passenger  had  that 
highest  of  all  terrestrial  rpialities,  which  for  me  a  fellow-passenger 
can  posse.«;s — he  was  silent.  I  think  his  name  was  Roscoe,  and  he 
read  sundry  long  papei's  to  himself,  with  the  pondering  air  of  a 
lawyer. 

We  breakfasted  at  Lichfield,  at  five  in  the  morning,  on  muddy 
coffee  and  scorched  toast,  which  made  me  once  more  lyrically  recog- 


36  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

nise  in  my  heart  (not  without  a  sigh  of  regret)  the  very  different 
coffee  and  toast  with  whicli  you  helped  me  out  of  my  headache. 
At  two  there  was  auother  stop  of  ten  minutes,  that  might  be  em- 
ployed in  hmchiug  or  otherwise.      Feeling  myself  more  fevered 
than  hungry,  I  determined  on  spending  the  time  in  combing  my 
hair  and  washing  my  face  and  hands  with  vinegar.     In  the  midst 
of  this  solacing  operation  I  heard  what  seemed  to  be  the  Mail  run- 
ning its  rapid  course,  and  quick  as  lightning  it  flashed  on  me, 
'  There  it  goes!  and  my  luggage  is  on  the  top  of  it,  and  my  purse 
is  in  the  pocket  of  it,  and  here  am  I  stranded  on  an  unknown 
beach,  without  so  much  as  a  sixpence  in  my  pocket  to  pay  for  the 
vinegar  I  have  already  consumed!'    Without  my  bonnet,  my  hair 
hanging  down  my  back,  ray  face  half  dried,  and  the  towel,  with 
which  I  was  drying  it,  firm  grasped  in  my  hand,  I  dashed  out — 
along,  down,  opening  wrong  doors,  stumbling  over  steps,  cursing 
the  day  I  was  born,  still  more  the  day  on  which  a  took  I  notion 
to  travel,    and  arrived  finally  at  the  bar  of  the  Inn,   in  a  state 
of    excitement  bordering  on  lunacy.      The    barmaids  looked    at 
me   'with   weender  and  amazement.'      'Is  the  coach  gone?'   I 
gasped  out.     '  The  coach?     Yes!'     '  Oh!  and  you  have  let  it  away 
without  me!     Oh!  stop  it,  cannot  you  stop  it? '  and  out  I  rushed 
into  the  street,  with  streaming  hair  and  streaming  towel,  and  al- 
most brained  myself  against — the  Mail!  which  was  standing  there 
in  all  stillness,  without  so  much  as  horses  in  it!    What  I  had  heard 
was  a  heavy  coach.     And  now,  having  descended  like  a  maniac,  I 
ascended  again  like  a  fool,  and  dried  the  other  half  of  my  face,  and 
put  on  my  bonnet,  and  came  back  '  a  sadder  and  a  wiser '  woman. 

I  did  not  find  my  husband  at  the  '  Swan  with  Two  Kecks  ;'  for 
we  were  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  appointed  time.  So  I 
had  my  luggage  put  on  the  backs  of  two  porters,  and  walked  on  to 
Cheapside,  where  I  presently  found  a  Chelsea  omnibus.  By  and 
by,  however,  the  omnibus  stopped,  and  amid  cries  of  'No  room, 
sir,'  'Can't  get  in,' Carlyle's  face,  beautifully  set  off  by  a  broad- 
brimmed  white  hat,  gazed  in  at  the  door,  like  the  Peri,  who,  '  at  the 
Gate  of  Heaven,  stood  disconsolate.'  In  hurrying  along  the  Strand, 
pretty  sure  of  being  too  late,  amidst  all  the  imaginable  and  unim- 
aginable phenomena  which  the  immense  thoroughfare  of  a  street 
presents,  his  eye  (Heaven  bless  the  mark!)  had  lighted  on  my  trunk 
perched  on  the  top  of  the  omnibus,  and  had  recognised  it.  This 
seems  to  me  one  of  the  most  indubitable  proofs  of  genius  which  he 
ever  manifested.  Happily,  a  passenger  went  out  a  little  further 
on,  and  then  he  got  in. 


JANE  WELSH  CAHLYLE.  87 

My  brothev-in-law  had  gone  two  days  before,  so  my  arrival  was 
most  well-timed.  I  found  all  at  home  right  and  tight;  my  maid 
seems  to  have  conducted  herself  quite  handsomely  in  my  absence; 
my  best  room  looked  really  inviting.  A  bust  of  Shelley  (a  present 
from  Leigh  Hunt),  and  a  fine  print  of  Albert  Dilrer,  handsomely 
framed  (also  a  present)  had  still  further  ornamented  it  during  my  ab- 
sence. I  also  found  (for  1  wish  to  tell  you  all  my  satisfaction) 
every  grate  in  the  house  furnished  with  a  supply  of  coloured  clip- 
pings, and  the  holes  in  the  stair-carpet  all  darned,  so  that  it  looks 
like  new.  They  gave  me  tea  and  fried  bacon,  and  staved  off  my 
headache  as  well  as  might  be.  They  were  very  kind  to  me,  but,  on 
my  life,  everybody  is  kind  to  me,  and  to  a  degree  that  fills  me  with 
admiration.  I  feel  so  strong  a  wish  to  make  you  all  convinced 
how  very  deeply  I  feel  your  kindness,  and  just  the  more  I  would 
say,  the  less  able  I  am  to  say  anything. 

God  bless  you  all.  Love  to  all,  from  the  head  of  the  house  down 
to  Johnny. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  14. 

This  'Fairy  Tale'  I  have  never  yet  seen;  must  have  been  de- 
stroyed by  her  afterwards.  Next  bit  of  MS.  sent  (Dialogue  &c., 
much  admired  by  Sterling)  is  still  here,  and  shall  be  given  at  the 
due  place. — T.  C. 

To  John  Sterling,  Esq. ,  Floriac,  Bordeaux. 

Feb.  1, 1837. 
My  ever  dear  John  Sterling, — Here  are  thirty-three  pages  of  writ- 
ing for  you,  which  would  divide  into  ten  letters  of  the  usual  size, 
so  that  you  see  I  discharge  my  debt  to  you  handsomely  enough  in 
the  long  run.  But  even  if  you  should  not  be  complaisant  enough 
to  accept  a  nonsense  fairy  tale  m  lieu  of  all  the  sense  letters  I  ought 
to  have  sent  you,  still  you  must  not  be  after  saying  or  thinking 
that  'Mrs.  Carlyle  has  cut  you  acquaintance.'  John  Sterling  'is  a 
man  of  sense '  (as  Mrs,  Buller,  one  day,  in  Carlyle's  hearing,  said 
patronisingly  of  the  Apostle  Paul),  and  must  know  that  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle is  a  woman  of  sense  by  this  token,  that  she  perceived  him, 
John  Sterling,  the  very  first  time  she  ever  set  eyes  on  him,  to  be  no 
humbug,  after  all  that  had  been  said  and  sung  about  him,  but  the 
very  sort  of  man-  one  desires  to  see,  and  hardly  ever  succeeds  in 
seeing  in  this  make-believe  world!     Now  I  put  it  to   your  can- 


^n 


88  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

» 

dour,  whether  any  women  of  sense,  in  her  right  senses,  having 
found  a  pearl  of  great  price,  would  dream  of  dissolving  it  in  a 
tumbler  of  water  and  swallowing  it  all  at  one  gulp  ?  For  such, 
in  highly  figurative  language,  would  be  the  foolish  use  I  should 
have  made  of  your  friendship,  provided  it  were  true,  as  you 
wrote,  that  I  had  already  cut  your  acquaintance!  Oh,  no!  you 
have  only  to  take  a  just  view  of  your  own  merits  and  mine,  to 
feel  as  convinced  as  though  I  had  sworn  it  before  a  magistrate  that 
my  long  silence  had  proceeded  from  some  'crook  in  the  lot,'  and 
not  in  the  mind. 

The  fact  is,  since  I  became  so  sick  and  dispirited  I  have  con- 
tracted a  horror  of  letter-writing,  almost  equal  to  the  hydrophobia 
horror  for  cold  water.  I  would  write  anything  under  heaven— fairy- 
tales, or  advertisements  for  Warren's  Blacking  even— rather  than  a 
letter!  A  letter  behoves  to  tell  about  oneself,  and  when  oneself  is  dis- 
agreeable to  oneself,  one  would  rather  tell  about  anything  else;  for, 
alas!  one  does  not  find  the  same  gratification  in  dwelling  upon  one's 
own  sin  and  misery,  as  in  showing  up  the  sin  and  misery  of  one's 
neighbour.  But  if  ever  I  get  agreeable  to  myself  again,  I  swear  to 
you  I  will  then  be  exceedingly  communicative,  in  preparation  for 
which  desirable  end  I  must  set  about  getting  into  better  health,  and 
that  I  may  get  into  better  health  I  must  begin  by  growing  wise, 
which  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  boy  of  the  'English  Opium-Eater's,' 
who  told  me  once  he  would  begin  Greek  presently;  but  his  father 
wished  him  to  learn  it  through  the  medium  of  Latin,  and  he  was 
not  entered  in  Latin  yet  because  his  father  wished  to  teach  him  from 
a  grammar  of  his  own,  which  he  had  not  yet  begun  to  Avrite! 

For  the  present  we  are  all  in  sad  taking  with  influenza.  People 
speak  about  it  more  than  they  did  about  cholera;  I  do  not  know 
whether  they  die  more  from  it.  Miss  Wilson,  not  having  come  to 
close  quarters  with  it,  has  her  mind  sufficiently  at  leisure  to  make 
philosophical  speculations  about  its  gender!  She  primly  promul 
gates  her  opinion  that  influenza  is  masculine.  My  husband,  for  the 
sake  of  argument  I  presume,  for  I  see  not  what  other  interest  he 
has  in  it,  protests  that  influenza  is  feminine;  for  me,  who  have  been 
laid  up  with  it  for  two  weeks  and  upwards,  making  lamentations  of 
Jeremiah  (not  without  reason),  I  am  not  prejudiced  either  way,  but 
content  myself  with  sincerely  wishing  it  were  neuter.  One  great 
comfort,  however,  under  all  afflictions,  is  that  '  The  French  Revo- 
lution'  is  happily  concluded;  at  least,  it  will  be  a  comfort  when  one 
is  delivered  from  the  tag-raggery  of  printers'  devils,  that  at  present 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  89 

drive  one  from  post  to  pillar.    Quelle  vie  !  let  no  woman  who  values 
peace  of  soul  ever  dream  of  marrying  an  author!    That  is  to  say, 
if  he  is  an  honest  one,  who  makes  a  conscience  of  doing  the  thing 
he  pretends  to  do.     But  this  I  ohserve  to  you  in  confidence;  should 
I  state  such  a  sentiment  openly,  I  might  happen  to  get  myself  torn 
in  pieces  by  the  host  of  my  liusband's  lady  admirers,  who  already, 
I  suspect,  think  me  too  happy  in  not  knowing  my  happiness.    You 
cannot  fancy  what  way  he  is  making  with  the  fair  intellects  here! 
There  is  Harriet  Martineau  presents  him  with  her  ear-trumpet  with 
a  pretty  blushing  air  of  coquetry,  which  would  almost  convince  me 
out  of  belief  in  her  identity !    And  Mrs.  Pierce  Butler  bolts  in  upon 
his  studies,  out  of  the  atmosphere  as  it  were,  in  riding-habit,  cap 
and  whip  (but  no  shadow  of  a  horse,  only  a  carriage,  the  whip  I 
suppose  being  to  whip  the  cushions  with,  for  the  purpose  of  keep- 
ing her  hand  in  practice) — my  inexperienced  Scotch  domestic  re- 
maining entirely  in  a  nonplus  whether  she  had  let  in  'a  leddy  or  a 
gentleman ' !    And  then  there  is  a  young  American  beauty— such  a 
beauty!  '  snow  and  rose-bloom '  throughout,  not  as  to  clothes  merely, 
but  complexion  also;   large  and  soft,  and  without  one  idea,  you 
would  say,  to  rub  upon  another!    And  this  charming  creature  pub- 
licly declares  herself  his  'ardent  admirer,'  and  I  heard  her  with 
my  own  ears  call  out  quite  passionately  at  parting  with  him,  '  Oh, 
Mr.  Carlyle,  I  want  to  see  you  to  talk  a  long  long  time  about— 
"  Sartor"  ' !    '  Sartor, '  of  all  things  in  this  world !    What  could  such 
a  young  lady  have  got  to  say  about  'Sartor,'  can  you  imagine? 
And  Mrs.  Marsh,  the  moving  authoress  of  the  'Old  Man's  Tales,' 
reads  '  Sartor'  when  she  is  ill. in  bed;  from  which  one  thing  at  least 
may  be  clearly  inferred,  that  her  illness  is  not  of  the  head.     In 
short,  ray  dear  friend,  the  singular  author  of  '  Sartor '  appears  to 
me  at  this  moment  to  be  in  a  perilous  position,  inasmuch  as  (with 
the  innocence  of  a  sucking  dove  to  outward  appearance)  he  is  leading 
honourable  women,  not  a  few,  entirelj'  off  their  feet.    And  who 
fan  say  that  he  will  keep  his  own?    After  all,  in  sober  earnest,  is  it 
not  curious  that  my  husband's  writings  should  be  only  completely 
understood  and  adequately  appreciated  by  women  and  mad  people? 
I  do  not  know  ver}'  well  what  to  infer  from  the  fact. 

Mr.  Spedding  is  often  to  be  heard  of  at  Miss  Wilson's  (not  that  I 
fancy  anything  amiss  in  that  quarter,  only  I  mentioned  him  be- 
cause he  is  your  friend).  Mr.  Maurice  we  rarely  see,  nor  do  I 
greatly  regret  his  absence;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  never  in 
his  company  without  being  attacked  with  a  sort  of  paroxysm  of 


40  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

mental  cramp!  He  keeps  one  always,  with  his  wire-drawings  and 
paradoxes,  as  if  one  were  dancing  on  the  points  of  one's  toes 
(spiritually  speaking).  And  then  he  will  help  with  the  kettle,  and 
never  fails  to  pour  it  all  over  the  milk-pot  and  sugar-basin  1  Henry 
Taylor  draws  oflf  into  the  upper  regions  of  gigmanity.  The  rest,  I 
think,  are  all  as  you  left  them. 

Your  mother  was  here  last  night,  looking  young  and  beautiful, 
with  a  new  bonnet  from  Howel  and  James's.  Your  brother  is  a 
great  favourite  with  Carlyle,  and  with  me  also,  only  one  dare  not 
fly  into  his  arms  as  one  does  into  yours.  Will  you  give  my  affec- 
tionate regards  to  your  wife,  and  a  kiss  for  me  to  each  of  the  chil- 
dren? Ask  your  wife  to  write  a  postscript  in  your  next  letter;  I 
deserve  some  such  sign  of  recollection  from  her,  in  return  for  all 
the  kind  thoughts  I  cherish  in  her.  I  wish  to  heaven  you  were  all 
back  again.  You  make  a  terrible  chasm  in  our  world,  which  does 
not  look  as  if  it  were  ever  going  to  get  closed  in.  You  will  write 
to  me?  You  will  be  good  enough  to  write  to  me  after  all?  There 
is  nothing  that  I  do  not  fancy  you  good  enough  for.  So  I  shall 
confidently  expect  a  letter.  God  bless  you,  and  all  that  belongs  to 
you. 

I  am,  ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

Carlyle  has  made  every  exertion  to  get  you  a  printed  copy  of  the 
•  'Diamond  Necklace,'  but  it  is  not  to  be  got  this  day.  He  adds  his 
brotherly  regards. 

LETTER  15. 

Early  in  January  1837  it  must  have  been  when  book  on  'French 
Revolution  '  was  finished.  I  wrote  the  last  paragraph  of  it  here 
(within  a  yard  of  where  I  now  am)  in  her  presence  one  evening 
after  dinner.  Damp  tepid  kind  of  evening,  still  by  daylight,  read 
it  to  her  or  left  her  to  read  it;  probably  with  a  'Thank  God,  it  is 
done,  Jeaunie!'  and  then  walked  out  up  the  Gloucester  Road  to- 
wards Kensington  way:  don't  remember  coming  back,  or  indeed  any- 
thing quite  distinct  for  three  or  four  months  after.  My  thoughts 
were  by  no  means  of  an  exultant  character:  pacifically  gloomy 
rather,  something  of  sullenly  contemptuous  in  them,  of  clear  hope 
(except  in  the  'desperate'  kind)  not  the  smallest  glimpse.  I  had 
said  to  her,  perhaps  that  very  day,  '  I  know  not  whether  this  book 
is  worth  anything,  nor  what  the  world  will  do  with  it,  or  misdo,  or 
entirely  forbear  to  do  (as  is  likeliest),  but  this  I  could  tell  the 
world :  You  have  not  had  for  a  hundred  years  any  book  that  came 
more  direct  and  flamingly  sincere  from  the  heart  of  a  living  man; 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  41 

do  with  it  what  you  like,  you !'    My  poor  little  Jeannie  and 

me,  hasn't  it  nearly  killed  us  both?  This  also  I  might  have  said, 
had  I  liked  it,  for  it  was  true.  My  health  was  much  spoiled;  hers 
too  by  sympathy,  by  daily  helping  me  to  struggle  with  the  intol- 
erable load.  I  suppose  by  this  time  our  money,  too,  was  near 
done:  busy  friends,  the  Wilsons  principally,  J^Iiss  Martineau,  and 
various  honourable  women,  were  clear  that  I  ought  now  to  lecture 
on  'German  Literature,' a  sure  financial  card,  they  all  said;  and 
set  to  shaping,  organising,  and  multifariously  consulting  about  the 
thing;  which  I  unwillingly  enough,  but  seeing  clearly  there  was 
no  other  card  in  my  hand  at  all,  was  obliged  to  let  them  do.  The 
printing  of  'French  Revolution,'  push  as  I  might,  did  not  end  till 
far  on  in  April — 'Lectures,'  six  of  them,  of  which  I  could  form  no 
image  or  conjecture  beforehand,  were  to  begin  with  May. — T.  C. 


To  John  WeUli,  Esq.,  Liverpool. 

5  Cheyne  Row;  March  4, 1837. 

Dearest  Uncle  of  me,— '  Fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous 
kind'!  You  and  my  aunt  have  had  the  influenza:  I  also  have  had 
the  influenza:  a  stronger  bond  of  sympathy  need  not  be  desired: 
and  so  the  spirit  moves  me  to  write  you  a  letter;  and  if  you  think 
there  is  no  very  '  wondrous  kindness '  in  that,  I  can  only  say  you 
are  mistaken,  seeing  that  I  have  had  so  much  indispensable  writing 
to  do  of  late  days  that,  like  a  certain  Duchess  of  Orleans  I  was  read- 
ing about  the  other  week,  '  when  night  comes,  I  am  often  so  tired 
with  writing,  that  I  can  hardly  put  one  foot  before  the  other ' ! 

But  with  respect  to  this  influenza,  uncle,  what  think  you  of  it? 
above  all  how  is  it,  and  why  is  it?  For  my  part,  with  all  my  clever- 
ness, I  cannot  make  it  out.  Sometimes  I  am  half  persuaded  that 
there  is  (in  Cockney  dialect)  'a  do  at  the  bottom  on  it';  medical 
men  all  over  the  world  having  merely  entered  into  a  tacit  agreement 
to  call  all  sorts  of  maladies  people  are  liable  to,  in  cold  weather,  by 
one  name;  so  that  one  sort  of  treatment  may  serve  for  all,  and  their 
practice  be  thereby  greatly  simplified.  In  more  candid  moments, 
however,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  has  something  to  do  with 
the  '  diffusion  of  useful  knowledge  ':  if  not  a  part  of  that  knowl- 
edge, at  least  that  it  is  meant  as  a  counterpoise;  so  that  our  minds 
may  be  preserved  in  some  equilibrium,  between  the  consciousness 
of  our  enormous  acquirements  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other 
the  generally  diffused  experience  that  aU  the  acquirements  in  the 
world  are  not  worth  a  rush  to  one,  compared  with  the  blessedness 
of  having  a  head  clear  of  snifters!  However  it  be,  I  am  thankful 
to  Heaven  that  I  was  the  chosen  victim  in  this  house,  instead  of  my 


43  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

husband.  For,  had  he  been  laid  up  at  present,  there  would  have 
been  the  very  devil  to  pay.  He  has  two  printers  on  his  book,  that 
it  may,  if  possible,  be  got  published  in  April;  and  it  will  hardly  be 
well  off  his  hands,  when  he  is  to  deliver  a  course  of  Lectures  on 
German  Literature  to  'Lords  and  Gentlemen,'  and  'honourable 
women  not  a  few.'  You  wonder  how  he  is  to  get  through  such  a 
thing?  So  do  I,  very  sincerely.  The  more,  as  he  proposes  to  speak 
these  lectures  extempore,  Heaven  bless  the  mark!  having,  indeed, 
no  leisure  to  prepare  them  before  the  time  at  which  they  will  be 
wanted. 

One  of  his  lady-admirers  (by  the  way  he  is  getting  a  vast  number 
of  lady-admirers)  was  saying  the  other  day  that  the  grand  danger 
to  be  feared  for  him  was  that  he  should  commence  with  '  Gentle- 
men and  Ladies,'  instead  of  'Ladies  and  Gentlemen,'  a  transmuta- 
tion which  would  ruin  him  at  the  very  outset.  He  vows,  however, 
that  he  will  say  neither  the  one  thing  nor  the  other,  and  I  believe  him 
very  secure  on  that  side.  Indeed,  I  sliould  as  soon  look  to  see  gold 
pieces,  or  penny  loaves  drop  out  of  his  mouth,  as  to  hear  from  it 
any  such  humdrum  unrepublican-like  commonplace.  If  he  finds  it 
necessary  to  address  his  audience  by  any  particular  designation,  it 
will  be  thus — 'Men  and  Women'!  or  perhaps,  in  my  Penfillan 
grandfather's  style,  'Fool-creatures  come  here  for  diversion.'  On 
the  whole,  if  his  hearers  be  reasonable,  and  are  content  that  there 
be  good  sense  in  the  things  he  says,  without  requiring  that  he 
should  furnish  them  with  brains  to  find  it  out,  I  have  no  doubt  but 
his  success  will  be  eminent.  The  exhibition  is  to  take  place  in 
Willis's  Rooms;  '  to  begin  at  three,  and  end  at  four  precisely';  and 
to  be  continued  every  Monday  and  Friday  through  the  first  three 
weeks  of  May.  '  Begin  precisely '  it  may,  with  proper  precautions 
on  my  part  to  put  all  the  clocks  and  watches  in  the  house  half-an- 
hour  before  the  time;  but,  as  to  'ending  precisely  '!  that  is  all  to  be 
tried  for!  There  are  several  things  in  this  world,  which,  once  set 
a-going,  it  is  not  easy  to  stop;  and  the  Book  is  one  of  them.  I  have 
been  thinking  that  perhaps  the  readiest  way  of  bringing  him  to  a 
cetera  desuni  (conclusion  is  out  of  the  question)  would  be,  just  as 
the  clock  strikes  four,  to  have  a  lighted  cigar  laid  on  the  table  before 
him — we  shall  see! 

The  '  French  Revolution '  done,  and  the  lectures  done,  he  is 
going  somewhere  (to  Scotland  most  probably)  to  rest  himself 
awhile;  to  lie  about  the  roots  of  hedges,  and  speak  to  no  man, 
woman,  or  child  except  in  monosyllables!  a  reasonable  project, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  48 

enough,  considering  the  worry  he  has  been  kept  in  for  almost  three 
years  back.  For  my  part,  having  neither  published  nor  lectured,  I 
feel  no  call  to  refresh  myself  by  such  temporary  descent  from  my 
orbit  under  the  waves;  and  in  Shakespearean  dialect,  I  had  such  a 
'  belly -full '  of  travelling  last  year  as  is  likely  to  quell  my  appetite, 
in  that  way,  for  some  time  to  come.  If  I  liad  been  consulted  in  the 
getting  up  of  the  Litany,  there  would  have  been  particular  mention 
made  of  steamboats,  mail-coaches,  and  heavy  coaches,  among  those 
things  from  which  we  pray  to  be  delivered ;  and  more  emphatic 
mention  made  of  '  such  as  travel  by  land  or  sea.' 

My  mother  writes  to  me  from  Dabton,  where  she  is  nursing  the 
Crichtons.  In  my  humble  opinion  she  is  (as  my  mother-in-law 
would  say)  'gey  idle  o' wark.'  I  have  expended  much  beautiful 
rhetoric  in  trying  to  persuade  her  hitherward,  and  she  prefers  nurs- 
ing these  Crichtons!  Well!  there  is  no  accounting  for  taste!  She 
will  come,  however,  she  says,  when  you  have  been  there,  but  not 
sooner;  so  I  hope  you  will  pay  yonr  visit  as  early  in  the  season  as 
you  can,  for  it  would  be  a  pity  if  she  landed  as  last  time,  after  all 
the  fine  weather  was  gone,  and  the  town  emptied.  Give  my  kindest 
love  to  my  kind  aunt,  and  kisses  to  all  the  children.  I  owe  my 
cousin  Helen  a  letter,  and  will  certainly  be  just  after  having  been 
generous.  My  husband  sends  his  affectionate  regards,  and  hopes 
you  received  the  copies  of  two  articles,  which  he  sent. 

Mr.  Gibson  has  not  been  liere  for  some  weeks;  he  begins  to  look 
stiffish,  and  a  little  round  at  the  shoulders,  otherwise  as  heretofore. 

God  bless  you  all,  my  dearest  uncle. 

Yours 

Jane  Welsh  Carlylb. 

LETTER  16. 

Monday,  May  1, 1837,  in  Willis's  Rooms  is  marked  as  date  of  my 
first  lecture.  It  was  a  sad  planless  jumble,  as  all  these  six  were, 
but  full  enough  of  new  matter,  and  of  a  furious  determination  on 
the  poor  lecturer's  part  not  to  break  down.  Plenty  of  incondite 
stuff  accordingly  there  was;  new,  and  in  a  strangely  new  dialect 
and  tone;  the  audience  intelligent,  partly  fashionable,  was  very 
good  to  me,  and  seemed,  in  spite  of  the  jumbled  state  of  things,  to 
feel  it  entertaining,  even  interesting.  I  pitied  myself,  so  agitated, 
terrified,  driven  desperate  and  furious.  But  I  found  I  had  no 
remedy,  necessity  compelling;  on  the  proceeds  we  were  financially 
safe  for  another  year,  that  was  my  one  sanction  in  the  sad  enter 
prise. 

Mrs.  Welsh  from  Templand  was  certainly  with  us  a  second  time 


44  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

at  present.  Returning  to  dinner  from  that  first  Monday's  perform- 
ance I  gave  to  my  darling  and  her,  from  some  of  the  gold  that  had 
been  handed  me,  a  sovereign  each  '  to  buy  something  with,  as 
handsel  of  this  novelty,'  which  little  gift  created  such  pleasure  in 
these  generous  two  as  is  now  pathetic  to  me,  and  a  kind  of  blessing 
to  remember.  When  this  second  visit  of  our  kind  mother's  began, 
or  how  long  it  lasted,  I  have  no  recollection.  I  left  her  here  for 
company,  in  setting  out  for  Aunandale,  whither  I  made  all  haste, 
impatient  for  shelter  and  silence  as  soon  as  the  hurlyburly  could 
be  got  to  end.  One  wish  I  had — silence!  silence!  In  the  latter 
half  of  June,  I  got  thither.  My  health  had  suffered  much  by 
'  French  Revolution  '  and  its  accompaniments,  especially  in  the 
later  months,  when  I  used  to  ask  myself,  Shall  I  ever  actually  get 
this  savagely  cruel  business  flung  off  me,  then,  and  be  rid  of  it? — a 
hope  which  seemed  almost  incredible. 

Mind  and  body  were  alike  out  of  order  with  me,  my  nervous  sys- 
tem must  have  been  in  a  horrible  state.  I  remember,  in  walking  up 
from  the  Liverpool-Annan  steamboat  with  brother  Alick,  Alick  had 
to  call  for  a  moment  in  some  cottage  at  Landhead,  and  I  waited 
looking  back  towards  Annan  and  the  unrivalled  prospect  of  sea  and 
land  which  one  commands  there,  leaning  on  a  milestone  which  I 
knew  so  well  from  my  school-days;  and  looking  on  Sol  way  Sea  to 
St.  Bee's  Head,  and  all  the  pretty  Cumberland  villages,  towns,  and 
swelling  amphitheatre  of  fertile  plains  and  airy  mountains,  to  me 
the  oldest  in  the  world,  and  the  loveliest.  What  a  changed  mean- 
ing in  all  that!  Tartarus  itself  and  the  pale  kingdoms  of  Dis  could 
not  have  been  more  preternatural  to  me,  and  I  felt  that  they  could 
not  have  been  more  so.  Most  stern,  gloomj^,  sad,  grand,  yet  terri- 
ble, steeped  in  woe!  This  was  my  humour  while  in  Annandale. 
Except  riding  down  to  Whinnyrigg  for  a  plunge  in  the  sea  (seven 
miles  and  back)  daily  when  tide  would  serve,  I  can  recollect  noth- 
ing that  I  did  there.  All  speech  (except,  doubtless,  with  my 
mother),  I  did  my  utmost  to  avoid.  Some  books  I  probably  had — 
'  Pickwick '  and  'Johannes  Miiller '  (in  strange  combination,  and 
'  Pickwick  '  the  preferable  to  me !)  I  do  partly  remember,  but  the 
reading  of  them  was  as  a  mere  opiate.  In  this  foul  torpor,  like  flax 
thrown  into  the  steeping  pool,  I  seem  to  have  stayed  above  two 
months — stayed,  in  fact,  till  ashamed  to  stay  longer.  As  for  re- 
covery, that  had  not  yet  considerably — in  truth,  it  never  fairly — 
came  at  all. 

Of  my  darling's  beautiful  reception  of  me  when  I  did  return,  all 
speech  is  inadequate,  for  now  in  my  sad  thoughts  it  is  like  a  little 
glimpse  of  Heaven  in  this  poor  turbid  earth.  I  am  too  unworthy 
of  it;  alas!  how  thrice  unworthy!  A  day  or  two  ago  I  discovered, 
crowded  into  my  first  letter  from  Chelsea,  as  her  postscript,  these 
bright  words,  touching  and  strange  to  me  [T.  C] : — 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Sept.  22, 1837. 
My  dear  Mother, — You  know  the  saying,  '  it  is  not  lost  which  a 
friend  gets,'  and  in  the  present  case  it  must  comfort  you  for  losing 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  46 

him.  Moreover,  j^ou  have  others  behind,  and  I  have  only  him, 
only  him  in  the  -whole  wide  world  to  love  me  and  take  care  of  me, 
poor  little  wretch  that  I  am.  Not  but  that  numbers  of  people  love 
me  after  their  fashion  far  better  than  I  deserve;  but  then  his  fashion 
is  so  different  from  all  these,  and  seems  alone  to  suit  the  crotchety 
creature  that  I  am.  Thank  you  then  for  having,  in  the  first  place, 
been  kind  enough  to  produce  him  into  this  world,  and  for  having, 
in  the  second  place,  made  him  scholar  enough  to  recognize  my  va- 
rious excellencies ;  and  for  having,  in  the  last  place  sent  him  back 
to  me  again  to  stand  by  me  in  this  cruel  east  wind.  .  .  .  God  bless 
you  all.     I  will  write  you  a  letter  all  to  yourself  before  long,  God 

willing. 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  17. 

'More  Dialogue'  is  more  of  'Watch  and  Canary-bird'  ('Chico' 
his  name).  I  had  been  in  Scotland  lately,  or  was  still  there.  The 
admired  little  Dialogue  I  never  could  get  sight  of,  while  she  had 
keepingof  it!— T.  C. 

To  the  Bev.  John  Sterling,  Blaekheath. 

Chelsea:  Sept.-Oct.,  1837. 

My  dear  Friend, — Being  a  sending  of  more  dialogue,  it  were 
downright  extravagance  to  send  a  letter  as  well.  So  I  shall  merely 
say  (your  father  being  sitting  impatiently  beating  with  his  stick)  that 
you  are  on  no  account  to  understand  that  by  either  of  these  dialog^i- 
ans  I  mean  to  shadow  forth  my  own  personality.  I  think  it  is  not 
superfluous  to  give  you  this  warning,  because  I  remember  j'ou 
talked  of  Chico's  philosophy  of  life  as  my  philosophy  of  life,  which 
was  a  horrible  calumny. 

You  can  fancy  how  one  must  be  hurried  when  your  father  is  ia 
the  case. 

God  bless  you. 

Always  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

Dialogue  I. 

The  Bird  and  the  Watch. 

Watch.  'Chirp,  chirp,  chirp;'  what  a  weariness  thou  art  with 
thy  chirping!  Does  it  never  occur  to  thee,  frivolous  thing,  that  life 
is  too  short  for  being  chirped  away  at  this  rate? 


46  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Bird.  Never.  I  am  no  philosopher,  but  just  a  plain  canary- 
bird. 

Watch.  At  all  events,  thou  art  a  creature  of  time  that  hast  been 
hatched,  and  that  will  surely  die.  And,  such  being  the  case,  me- 
thinks  thou  art  imperatively  called  upon  to  think  more  and  to  chirp 
less. 

Bh'd.  I  'called  upon  to  think'!  How  do  you  make  that  out"? 
Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  specify  how  my  condition  would  be 
improved  by  thought?  Could  thought  procure  me  one  grain  of  seed 
or  one  drop  of  water  beyond  what  my  mistress  is  pleased  to  give? 
Could  it  procure  me  one  eighth  of  an  inch,  one  hair's-breadth  more 
room  to  move  about  in,  or  could  it  procure  me  to  be  hatched  over 
again  with  better  auspices,  in  fair  green  wood  beneath  the  blue  free 
sky?  I  imagine  not.  Certainl}'  I  never  yet  betook  myself  to  thinking 
instead  of  singing,  that  I  did  not  end  in  dashing  wildly  against  the 
wires  of  my  cage,  with  sure  loss  of  feathers  and  at  the  peril  of  limb 
and  life.  No,  no,  Madam  Gravity,  in  this  very  conditional  world, 
depend  upon  it,  he  that  thinks  least  will  live  the  longest,  and  song 
is  better  than  sense  for  carrying  one  handsomely  along. 

Watch.  You  confess,  then,  without  a  blush,  that  you  have  no 
other  aim  in  existence  than  to  kill  time? 

Bii'd.  Just  so.  If  I  were  not  always  a  killing  of  time,  time,  I 
can  tell  you,  would  speedily  kill  me.  Heigh  ho!  I  wish  you  had 
not  interrupted  me  in  my  singing. 

Watch.  Thou  sighest,  'Chico;'  there  is  a  drop  of  bitterness  at 
the  bottom  of  tliis  froth  of  levity.  Confess  the  truth;  thou  art  not 
without  compunction  as  to  thy  course  of  life. 

Bifd.  Indeed,  but  I  am,  though.  It  is  for  the  Power  that  made 
me  and  placed  me  here  to  feel  compunction,  if  any  is  to  be  felt. 
For  me,  I  do  but  fulfil  my  destiny:  in  the  appointing  of  it,  I  had 
no  hand.  It  was  with  no  consent  of  mine  that  I  ever  was  hatched ; 
for  the  blind  instinct  that  led  me  to  chip  the  shell,  and  so  exchange 
my  natural  prison  for  one  made  with  hands,  can  hardly  be  imputed 
to  me  as  an  act  of  volition;  it  was  with  no  consent  of  mine  that  I 
was  fated  to  live  and  move  within  the  wires  of  a  cage,  where  a 
fractured  skull  and  broken  wings  are  the  result  of  all  endeavour 
towards  the  blue  infinite,  nor  yet  was  it  with  consent  of  mine  that 
I  was  made  to  depend  for  subsistence,  not  on  my  own  faculties  and 
exertions,  but  on  the  bountj^  of  a  fickle  mistress,  who  starves  me  at 
one  time  and  surfeits  me  at  another.  Deeply  from  my  inmost  soul 
I  have  protfestcd,  and  do  and  will  protest  against  all  this.    If,  then, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  47 

the  chirping  with  which  I  stave  off  sorrow  and  ennui  be  an  offence 
to  the  would-be  wise,  it  is  not  I  but  Providence  should  bear  the 
blame,  having  placed  me  in  a  condition  where  there  is  no  alterna- 
tive but  to  chirp  or  die,  and  at  the  same  time  made  self-preserva- 
tion the  first  instinct  of  all  living  things. 

Watch.  '  Unhappy  Chico! '  not  in  thy  circumstances,  but  in  thy- 
self lies  the  mean  impediment  over  which  thou  canst  not  gain  the 
mastery.'  *  The  lot  thou  complainest  of  so  petulantly  is,  with  slight 
variation,  the  lot  of  all.  Thou  art  not  free?  Tell  me  who  is? 
Alas,  my  bird  !  Here  sit  prisoners;  there  also  do  prisoners  sit. 
This  world  is  all  prison,  the  only  difference  for  those  who  inhabit 
it  being  in  the  size  and  aspect  of  the  cells;  while  some  of  these 
stand  revealed  in  cold  strong  nakedness  for  what  they  really  are, 
others  are  painted  to  look  like  sky  overhead,  and  open  country  all 
around,  but  the  bare  and  the  painted  walls  are  alike  impassable, 
and  fall  away  only  at  the  coming  of  the  Angel  of  Death. 

Bird.  With  all  due  reverence  for  thy  universal  insight,  picked  up 
Heaven  knows  how,  in  spending  thy  days  at  the  bottom  of  a  dark 
fob,  I  must  continue  to  think  that  the  birds  of  the  air,  for  example, 
are  tolerably  free;  at  least,  they  lead  a  stirring,  pleasurable  sort  of 
life,  which  may  well  be  called  freedom  in  comparison  with  this  of 
mine.  Oh  that,  like  them,  I  might  skim  the  azure  and  hop  among 
the  boughs;  that,  like  them,  I  might  have  a  nest  I  could  call  my 
own,  and  a  wife  of  my  own  choosing,  that  I  might  fly  away  from, 
the  instant  she  wearied  me!  Would  that  the  egg  I  was  hatched 
from  had  been  addled,  or  that  I  had  perished  while  yet  unfledged ! 
I  am  weary  of  my  life,  especially  since  thou  hast  constituted  thyself 
ray  spiritual  adviser.  Ajj  de  mi!  But  enough  of  this:  it  shall 
never  be  told  that  I  died  the  death  of  Jenkin's  hen.'  '  Chico, 
point  defaiblesse. '  * 

Watch.  It  were  more  like  a  Christian  to  say,  'Heaven  be  my 
strength.' 

Bird.  And  pray  what  is  a  Christian?  I  have  seen  poets,  phi- 
losophers, politicians,  bluestockings,  philanthropists,  all  sorts  of 
notable  people  about  my  mistress;  but  no  Christian,  so  far  as  I  am 
aware. 

Watch.  Bird!  thy  spiritual  darkness  exceeds  belief.  What  can  I 
say  to  thee?    I  wish  I  could  make  thee  wiser,  better! 

'  The  name  was  of  my  giving.  '  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meiater, 

*  Annandale  comic  proverb,  originating  I  Icnow  not  how. 
* '  Danton,  point  de,'  &c. 


48  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Bird.  If  wishes  were  saws,  I  should  request  you  to  saw  me  a  pas- 
sage through  those  wires;  but  wishes  being  simply  wishes,  I  desire 
to  be  let  alone  of  them. 

Watch.  Good  counsel  at  least  is  not  to  be  rejected,  and  I  give  the 
best,  wouldst  thou  but  lay  it  to  heart.  Look  around  thee,  Chico — 
around  and  within.  Ascertain,  if  thou  canst,  the  main  source  of 
thy  discontent,  and  toward  the  removal  of  that  direct  thy  whole  fac- 
ulties and  energies.  Even  should  thy  success  prove  incomplete,  the 
very  struggle  will  be  productive  of  good.  'An  evil,'  says  a  great 
German  thinker,  '  ceases  to  be  an  evil  from  the  moment  in  which  we 
begin  to  combat  it. '  Is  it  what  you  call  loss  of  liberty  that  flings  the 
darkest  shadow  over  your  soul?  If  so,  you  have  only  to  take  a  cor- 
rect and  philosophical  view  of  the  subject  instead  of  a  democratic 
sentimental  one,  and  you  will  find,  as  other  captives  have  done, 
that  there  is  more  real  freedom  within  the  walls  of  a  prison  than  in 
the  distracting  tumult  without.  Ah,  Chico,  in  pining  for  the  pleas- 
ures and  excitements  which  lie  beyond  these  wires,  take  also  into 
account  the  perils  and  hardships.  Think  what  the  bird  of  the  air 
has  to  suffer  from  the  weather,  from  boys  and  beasts,  and  even 
from  other  birds.  Storms  and  snares  and  unknown  woes  beset  it  at 
every  turn,  from  all  which  you  have  been  mercifully  delivered  in 
being  once  for  all  cooped  up  here. 

Bird.  There  is  one  known  woe,  however,  from  which  I  have  not 
been  delivered  in  being  cooped  up  here,  and  that  is  your  absolute 
wisdom  and  impertinent  interference,  from  which  same  I  pray 
Heaven  to  take  me  with  all  convenient  speed.  If  ever  I  attain  to 
freedom,  trust  me,  the  very  first  use  I  shall  make  of  it  shall  be  to  fly 
where  your  solemn  prosy  tick  shall  not  reach  me  any  more  for  ever. 
Evil  befall  the  hour  when  my  mistress  and  your  master  took  it  into 
their  heads  to  '  swear  eternal  friendship,'  and  so  occasion  a  juxta- 
position betwixt  us  two  which  nature  could  never  have  meant. 

Watch.  'My  master'?  Thou  imbecile.  I  own  no  master; 
rather  am  I  his  mistress,  of  whom  thou  speakest.  Nothing  can  he 
do  without  appealing  to  me  as  to  a  second  better  conscience,  and  it 
is  I  who  decide  for  him  when  he  is  incapable  of  deciding  for  him- 
self. I  say  to  him,  It  is  time  to  go,  and  he  goelh;  or,  There  is  time 
to  stay,  and  he  stayeth.  Hardly  is  he  awake  of  a  morning  when  I 
tick  authoritatively  into  his  ear,  'Levez-vous,  monsieur/  Vous  avez 
d«s  grandes  choses  a  faire  ; '  >  and  forthwith  he  gathers  himself  to- 

»  St.  Simon  (he  of  fSSio,  n.  b.  !>. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  49 

gether  to  enjoy  the  light  of  a  new  day— if  no  better  may  be.  And 
is  not  every  triumph  he  ever  gained  over  natural  indolence  to  be  at- 
tributed to  my  often-repeated  remonstrance,  '  Work,  for  the  night 
Cometh '  ?  Ay,  and  when  the  night  is  come,  and  he  lays  himself 
down,  I  take  my  place  at  his  bed-head,  and,  like  the  tenderest  nurse, 
tick  him  to  repose. 

Bird.  And  suppose  he  neglected  to  wind  thee  up,  or  that  thy  main- 
spring chanced  to  snap?  What  would  follow  then?  Would  the 
world  stand  still  in  consequence  ?  Would  thy  master— for  such  he  is 
to  all  intents  and  purposes— lie  for  ever  in  bed  expecting  thy  Levez- 
vousf  Would  there  be  nothing  in  the  wide  universe  besides  thee  to 
tell  him  what  o'clock  it  was?  Impudent  piece  of  mechanism!  Thing 
of  springs  and  wheels,  iu%vhich  flows  no  life-blood,  beats  no  heart! 
Depend  upon  it,  for  all  so  much  as  thou  thinkest  of  thyself,  thou 
couldst  be  done  without.  11  n'y  a  point  de  montre  necessaire  !  i  The 
artisan  who  made  thee  with  files  and  pincers  could  make  a  thousand 
of  thee  to  order.  Cease,  then,  to  deem  thyself  a  fit  critic  and  law- 
giver for  any  living  soul.  Complete  of  thy  kind,  tick  on,  with  in- 
fallible accuracy,  sixty  ticks  to  the  minute,  through  all  eternity  if 
thou  wilt  and  canst;  but  do  not  expect  such  as  have  hearts  in  their 
breasts  to  keep  time  with  thee.  A  heart  is  a  spontaneous,  impul- 
sive thing,  which  cannot,  I  would  have  thee  know,  be  made  to  beat 
always  at  one  measured  rate  for  the  good  pleasure  of  any  time-piece 
that  ever  was  put  together.  And  so  good  day  to  thee,  for  here 
comes  one  who,  thank  Heaven,  will  put  thee  into  his  fob,  and  so 
end  our  tete-a-tete. 

Watch.  (With  a  sigh.)     'The  living  on  earth  have  much  to  bear!' 

J.  W.  C. 


This  is  the  piece  mentioned  in  Sterling's  Life,  p.  304  (he  had  seen 
it;  I  never  did  till  now,  she  refusing  me,  as  usual;  nor  did  I  know 
for  certain  that  it  was  in  existence  still).  '  Chico '  {Tiny,  in  Span- 
ish) was  our  canary  bird,  brought  from  Craigenputtock  hither  on 
her  knee.  The  '  Watch '  had  been  her  mother's;  it  is  now  (August, 
1866)  her  mother's  niece's  (Maggie  Welsh's,  for  two  mouths  back). 
A  'Remonstrance,'  now  placed  here,  is  from  the  same  'Watch,' 
probably  several  years  later.  Or  perhaps  this  is  the  '  farther  send- 
ing' letter  referred  to  in  Letter  No.  39  (1837)  vaguely  as  in  second 
bit  of  dialogue?  No  'second'  otherwise,  of  any  kind,  is  now  dis- 
coverable. (August  15,  1869,  my  last  day  at  present  on  this  sad  and 
sacred  task). — T.  C.  insomnis  (as  to  much). 


> ' .    .    .    point  d'homme,''    ,    .    .    Napoleon  used  to  say. 
L-3 


50  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


Remonstrance  of  my  Old  Watch. 

What  have  I  done  to  you,  that  you  should  dream  of  '  tearing  out 
my  inside'  and  selling  me  away  for  an  old  song?  Is  your  heart  be- 
come hard  as  the  nether  millstone,  that  you  overlook  long  familiar- 
ity and  faithful  service,  to  take  up  with  the  new-fangled  gimcracks 
of  the  day?  Did  I  ever  play  thee  false?  I  have  been  driven  with 
you,  been  galloped  with  you  over  the  roughest  roads;  have  been 
'jolted'  as  never  watch  was;  and  all  this  without  'sticking  up  '  a 
single  time,  or  so  much  as  lagging  behind !  Nay,  once  I  remember 
(tlie  devil  surely  possessed  you  at  that  moment)  you  pitched  me  out 
of  your  hand  as  though  I  had  been  a  worthless  pincushion;  and 
even  that  unprecedented  shock  I  sustained  with  unshaken  nerves! 
Trj'  any  of  your  new  favourites  as  you  have  tried  me;  send  the  little 
wretch  you  at  present  wear  within  your  waistband  smack  against  a 
deal  floor,  and  if  ever  it  stirred  more  in  this  world,  I  should  think 
it  little  less  than  a  miracle. 

Bethink  you  then,  misguided  woman,  while  it  is  yet  time!  If 
not  for  my  sake,  for  your  own,  do  not  complete  your  barbarous 
purpose.  Let  not  a  passing  womanish  fancy  lead  you  from  what 
has  been  the  ruling  principle  of  your  life — a  detestation  of  shams 
and  humbug.  For,  believe  me,  these  little  watches  are  arrant 
shams,  if  ever  there  was  one.  They  are  not  watches  so  much  as 
lockets  with  watch  faces.  The  least  rough  handling  puts  them  out 
of  sorts;  a  jolt  is  fatal;  they  cost  as  much  in  repairs  every  year  as 
their  original  price;  and  when  they  in  their  turn  come  to  have  their 
insides  torn  out,  what  have  you  left?  Hardly  gold  enough  to  make 
a  good-sized  thimble. 

But  if  you  are  deaf  to  all  suggestions  of  common-sense,  let  senti- 
ment plead  for  me  in  your  breast.  Remember  how  daintily  j^ou 
played  with  me  in  your  childhood,  deriving  from  my  gold  shine 
your  first  ideas  of  worldly  splendour.  Remember  how,  at  a  more 
advanced  age,  you  longed  for  the  possession  of  me  and  of  a  riding 
habit  and  whip,  as  comprising  all  that  was  most  desirable  in  life! 
And  when  at  length  your  mother  made  me  over  to  you,  remember 
how  feelingly  (so  feelingly  that  you  shed  tears)  I  brought  home  to 
your  bosom  the  maxim  of  your  favourite  Goethe,  '  The  wished-for 
comes  too  late.'  And  oh!  for  the  sake  of  all  these  touching  re- 
membrances, cast  me  not  off,  to  be  dealt  with  in  that  shocking 
manner;  but  if,  through  the  caprice  of  fashion,  I  am  deemed  no 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  51 

longer  fit  to  be  seen,  make  me  a  little  pouch  inside  your  dress,  and 
I  am  a  much  mistaken  watch  if  you  do  not  admit  in  the  long  run 
that  my  solid  merit  is  far  above  that  of  any  half  dozen  of  these 
lilliputian  upstarts. 
And  so,  betwixt  hope  and  fear,  I  remain. 

Your  dreadfully  agitated. 

Watch. 

I  find  so  much  reason  as  well  as  pathos  and  natural  eloquence  in 
the  above  that  I  shall  proceed  no  further  with  the  proposed  ex- 
change. 

Jane. 

LETTER  18. 

From  Phmbe  Chorley  to  Thomas  Carlyle,  London 
(favoured  by  H.  F.  Chorley). 

Thus  to  venture  unbidden  into  thy  presence  may  seem  some- 
what startling  to  thee  in  a  woman,  and  a  member  of  the  quiet,  un- 
obtrusive Society  of  Friends;  but  thou  must  thank  the  originality, 
the  first-rate  talent,  the  taste,  the  poetry  of  thy  three  wonderful 
volumes  on  the  French  Revolution  for  drawing  on  thee  the  inflic- 
tion, it  may  be,  of  mere  commonplace  sentences  in  my  endeavour 
to  express,  however  inadequately,  the  deep  unspeakable  interest 
with  which  I  am  perusing  thy  admirable  narrative  of  the  events 
which  astonished  and  horrified  the  civilised  world  forty-five  years 
ago. 

The  style,  described  to  me  before  I  saw  the  work,  as  '  peculiar 
and  uninviting,'  I  deem  of  all  others  calculated  to  convey  the  fer- 
vour, the  fierceness,  and  the  atrocity  alternately  possessing  the  feel- 
ings of  those  the  chief  actors  in  that  most  sanguinary  drama.  So 
perfectly  graphic,  too,  a  painter  need  desire  no  better  study  to  im- 
prove his  art.  I  can  distinctly  see  the  ancient  Merovingian  kings 
on  their  bullock-carts ;  and  the  chamber  of  the  dying  Louis  Quinze 
with  all  its  accompaniments;  and  the  new  Korfl;  barlin,  and  its 
wretched,  vacillating  inmates — the  poor  queen  issuing  into  the 
street  and  lost  there.  Oh!  the  breatliless  anxiety  of  that  journey; 
how  one  longed  to  speed  them  forward,  especially,  I  think,  for  her 
sake,  whose  curse  it  was,  in  a  new  era,  when  the  light  broke 
through  the  Cimmerian  darkness  of  ages,  to  be  united  to  a  man  of 
that  mediocre  sort,  who  is  incapable  of  reading  the  fiery  language 


53  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

of  passing  events,  and  yet  not  content  to  be  wholly  passive.  Oh ! 
how  the  very  depths  of  my  heart  are  stirred  up  responsive  to  the 
humiliations  and  sufEerings  of  that  high-minded,  erring  woman; 
she  stands  there  before  me  in  the  window  at  Versailles,  the  untasted 
cup  of  coffee  in  her  hand !  A  spell  is  completely  cast  over  me  by  the 
waving  of  the  enchanter's  wand,  given  to  thee  to  wield  for  the  in- 
struction of  thy  less- gifted  fellow  mortals. 

Go  on  and  prosper,  saith  my  whole  soul.  Such  abilities  as  thine 
were  never  designed  to  be  folded  in  a  napkin ;  use  them  worthily, 
and  they  will  bless  thyself  and  thousands.  I  am  truly  rejoiced  a 
writer  has  at  last  sprung  up  to  do  justice  to  modern  history — a 
greatly  neglected  species  of  literature — and  to  present  it  in  colours 
so  attractive  that,  as  certainly  as  mind  recognises  mind,  and  speaks 
to  it,  and  is  comprehended  by  it,  so  certainly  will  '  The  French 
Revolution'  of  Thomas  Carlyle  be  read  and  approved  by  all  men, 
and  all  women  too,  endowed  with  any  of  that  Promethean  fire 
which  he  seems  to  fetch  down  from  heaven  at  will,  and  finally  win 
its  way  through  all  obstructions  to  form  a  part — an  important  part 
— of  the  standard  of  the  English  language. 

Je  lejure  (I  swear  it).  Chapter  VI.,  Book  i.,  vol.  ii. : — The  open- 
ing paragraph  on  Hope  is  exquisitely  constructed.  I  cannot  recall 
to  memory  a  more  felicitous  arrangement  of  words  than  this  para- 
graph displays.  It  has  become  incorporated  with  the  very  texture 
of  my  thoughts,  'a  sacred  Constantine's  banner  written  on  the 
eternal  skies.' 

Henry  Chorley,  the  bearer  of  this,  can  tell  thee  how  his  own 
family  and  my  brother  and  sister  Crosfield,  all  of  them  people  of 
mind,  have  been  delighted  with  thy  production.  Accept  my  most 
cordial  individual  thanks  for  the  rich  intellectual  banquet  thou  hast 
provided.  All  other  books  will  appear  so  tame  and  fiat  in  compari- 
son with  these,  that  I  know  not  what  to  turn  to  when  I  shall  have 
done  with  the  third  volume,  which  travels  into  the  country  to- 
morrow with 

Thy  sincere  friend  and  admirer, 

Phcebe  Choeley. 

Copied  in  her  hand  for  my  mother,  after  which; 

Chelsea:  March- April,  1838. 
There,  dear  mother!    Pretty  fairish  for  a  prim  Quakeress,  don't 
you  think?    Just  fancy  her  speaking  all  these  transcendental  flat- 
teries from  under  a  little  starched  cap  and  drab-coloured  bonnet! 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  53 

I  wonder  how  old  she  is;  and  if  she  is,  or  has  been,  or  expects  ever 
to  be  married?  Dou't  you?  Perhaps  the  spirit  may  move  her  to 
come  hither  next,  and  cultivate  still  more  her  '  favourable  senti- 
ments.' Well,  let  her!  I  could  pardon  her  any  absurdity  almost, 
in  consideration  of  that  beautiful  peculiarity  she  possessed,  of  ad- 
miring his  very  style,  which  has  hitherto  exceeded  the  capacity  of 
admiration  in  all  men,  women,  and  children  that  have  made  the 
attempt. 

An  enthusiastic  Quaker  once  gave  Edward  Irving  a  gig.  I 
wonder  if  this  enthusiastic  Quakeress  will  give  Carlyle  one;  it 
would  be  excessively  useful  here. 

We  have  fine  weather,  and  I  am  nearly  rid  of  my  cough  again, 
Carlyle  has  fallen  to  no  work  yet;  but  is  absolutely  miserable 
nevertheless.  Ellen  is  pretty  strong  again,  and  I  hope  will  be  able 
to  '  carry  on  '—at  least,  '  till  Lonsdale  coom. ' '  Chico  has  got  a  new 
cage  from  a  gentleman,  not  a  Quaker.  So,  you  see,  all  goes  toler- 
ably here.     Love  to  Jenny ;  remember  me  to  Robert. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  19. 

To  Miss  Helen  Welsh,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  May  27,  1838. 
O  Cousin,  gracious  and  benign, — Beautiful  is  it  to  see  thy  tender 
years  bearing  such  blossoms  of  tolerance;  for  tolerance  is  not  in 
general  the  virtue  of  youth,  but  only  of  mature  or  even  old  age — 
experienced  age,  which  after  long  and  sore  '  kicking  against  the 
pricks,'  has  learned  for  itself  what  it  would  not  take  on  hearsay, 
that  the  world  we  live  in  is  of  necessity,  and  has  been,  and  ever 
will  be,  an  erring  and  conditional  world;  and  that  in  short,  all  men, 
women,  and  children,  beginning  with  ourselves,  are  shockingly  im- 
perfect. So  that  there  is  none  justified  in  saying  with  self-compla- 
cency, '  black  is  the  eye '  of  another.     Indeed,  I  should  have  felt  it 

'  Old  Cumberland  woman,  listening  as  the  newspaper  was  read,  full  of  bat- 
tling, warring,  and  tumult  all  over  the  world,  exclaimed  at  last:  '  Aye,  they'll 
karry  on  till  Lonsdale  coom,  and  he'll  soon  settle  them  awl '  A  female  part- 
ner was  provided  for  Chico;  on  first  introducing  this  latter  to  me,  with  what 
an  Inimitable  air  my  bright  one,  recounting  her  purchase,  parodied  that 
Covent  Garden  chaunt,  '  The  all-wise,  great  Creator  saw  that  he  .  .  .  1 ' 
(See  p.  153.) 


54  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

hard  to  have  beeu  reproached  by  you  for  not  writing;  you,  who 
have  health  aud  no  cares,  cannot  at  all  estimate  the  effort  I  make, 
and  doing  anything  that  can  be  let  alone  without  immediate  detri- 
ment to  the  State  or  the  individual. 

I  have  had  so  much  to  bear,  for  a  long,  long  time  back,  from  the 
derangement  of  my  interior,  that  when  a  day  of  betterness  does  ar- 
rive, I  am  tempted,  instead  of  employing  it  in  writing  letters,  or  in 
doing  duties  of  whatever  sort,  to  make  a  sort  of  child's  play-day  of 
it;  and  then,  when  my  head  is  aching,  or  my  cough  troublesome — 
Oh,  Helen  dear,  may  you  never  know  by  experience  how  difficult  it 
is  in  such  circumstances,  to  write  a  letter  all  about  nothing,  even  to 
a  sweet-faced,  well-beloved  cousin! 

We  were  just  theu  in  the  first  ferment  of  our  Lectures,  ^  which 
are  still  going  on,  and  keeping  up  an  extra  degree  of  tumult  within 
and  without  us.  However,  he  has  been  borne  through  the  first 
eight  'with  an  honourable  through-bearing,'  aud  I  dare  say  will  not 
break  down  in  the  remaining  four.  The  audience  is  fair  in  quan- 
tity (more  than  fair,  considering  that  he  is  a  lecturer  on  his  own 
basis,  unconnected  with  any  'Royal  Institution,'  or  the  like);  and 
in  quality  it  is  unsurpassable ;  there  are  women  so  beautiful  and 
intelligent,  that  they  look  like  emanations  from  the  moon;  and 
men  whose  faces  are  histories,  in  which  one  may  read  with  ever 
new  interest.  On  the  whole,  if  he  could  get  sleep  at  nights,  while 
the  lecturing  goes  forward,  and  if  I  might  look  on  without  being 
perpetually  reminded  by  the  pain  in  my  head,  or  some  devilry  or 
other,  that  I  am  a  mere  woman,  as  the  Annan  Bailie  reminded  the 
people  who  drank  his  health  at  a  Corporation  dinner  that  he  was  a 
mere  man — ('  O  gentlemen!  remember  that  I  am  but  a  man  of  like 
passions  with  yourselves ') — we  should  find  this  new  trade  rather 
agreeable.  In  the  meanwhile,  with  all  its  drawbacks,  it  answers 
the  end.  '0  gloire,'  says  a  French  poet,  'donnez-moi  du  pain!' 
And  glory  too  often  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  this  reasonable  request;  but 
she  is  kind  enough  to  grant  it  to  us  in  the  present  instance;  so 
allons,  let  us  '  eat  fire,'  as  Carlyle  calls  it,  since  people  are  disposed 
to  give  their  money  for  such  exhibition,  over  and  above  their  ap- 
plause. 

My  husband  wishes  and  needs  a  change;  and  a  climate  where  I 
should  not  need  to  be  confined  for  months  together  to  the  house  (I 
may  say  to  two  rooms)  were  a  manifest  improvement  in  my  lot.  It 
was  dreary  work  last  winter,  though  by  incredible  precautions  I 

1  Second  course,  delivered  in  the  spring  of  1838. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  55 

kept  myself  perpendicular ;  and  the  winter  before  is  horrible  to  think 

of,  even  at  this  date.     A  single  woman  (by  your  leave  be  it  said) 

may  be  laid  up  with  comparative  ease  of  mind ;  but  in  a  country 

where  a  man  is  allowed  only  one  wife,  and  needs  that  one  for  other 

purposes  than  mere  show,  it  is  a  singular  hardship  for  all  parties, 

when  she  misgives  anyhow,  so  as  to  be  rendered  wholly  ineffectual. 

I  had  a  box  from  mother  the  other  day,  which  came,  I  believe, 

through  you. 

Everything  rich,  everything  rare, 

Save  young  Nourmahl,  was  blowing  there. 

By  the  way,  Carlyle  breakfasted  with  Thomas  Moore  the  other 
morning,  and  fancied  him. 

I  hope  very  sincerely  that  my  aunt  is  quite  well  again,  and  should 
like  to  be  assured  of  it  by  some  of  you.  Give  her  and  uncle,  and 
the  whole  generation,  my  warmest  affection.  Carlyle  joins  me  in 
good  wishes  for  you  all;  and  behold!  I  remain  your  faithful  attached, 
in-spite-of -appearances,  cousin, 

Jane  Caklyle. 

LETTER  20. 

This  autumn,  after  lectures,  printing  of  'Sartor,' &c.,  I  steam- 
ered  to  Kirkcald.y;  was  in  Scotland  five  or  six  weeks — to  Edin- 
burgh twice  or  thrice;  to  Minto  Manse  (Dr.  Aitkeu's,  now  married 
to  'Bess  Stoddart,'  heiress  of  old  Bradfute,  and  very  rich);  thence, 
after  dull  short  sojourn,  through  Hawick,  Langholm  to  Scotsbrig 
(mother  absent  in  IMauchester) ;  to  Chelsea  again,  early  in  October. 
Vivid  at  this  hour  are  all  these  movements  to  me;  but  not  worth 
noting:  only  the  Kirkcaldy  part,  with  the  good  Ferguses,  and, 
after  twenty  years  of  absence,  was  melodiously  interesting  to  me, 
more  or  less.     Ay  de  mi,  all  gone,  now,  all! — T.  C. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  at  Kirkcaldy. 

Chelsea:  Aug.  30, 1838. 
Dear  Husband  of  me, — I  was  most  thankful  to  hear  an  articulate 
cheep  (chirp)  from  you  once  more,  for  the  little  notekiu  'did  neither 
ill  nor  gude.'  But  this  is  a  clear  and  comprehensive  view  of  the 
matter,  which  may  satisfy  the  female  mind,  for  a  time,  and  de- 
.serves  a  most  ample  threepenny  in  return.'  I  would  have  sat  down 
instantly  on  receiving  it,  and  made  a  clean  breast  of  all  my  think- 
ings and  doings,  in  the  first  fervour  of  enthusiasm,  which  such  a 

I  Our  name  for  a  post-letter  in  those  days.    '  Send  him  a  threepenny,  then.' 


56  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

good  letter  natiircally  inspired ;  but  tlie  letter  came  at  one,  and  at 
two  the  carriage  was  ordered  to  convey  me  to  pass  the  day  with 

Mrs.  c ;  so  it  was  plam,  you  could  not  get  the  '  first  rush  o'  the 

tea,'  without  being  stinted  in  quantity.  But  this  morning,  I  have 
said  it,  that  nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  shall  hinder  me  from 
filling  this  sheet. 

First  of  all,  then,  dear  111,'  I  am.  and  have  been,  in  perfectly 
good  case  so  far  as  the  body  is  concerned.  '  Association  of  Ideas ' 
was  like  to  have  played  the  devil  with  me  at  first.  The  first  night 
after  your  departure,  I  slept  three  hours;  the  second,  forty  minutes ; 
and  the  third,  none  at  all.  If  I  haa  a  cow,  I  should  have  bade  it 
'consider; '2  having  none  it  was  necessary  to  'consider'  myself. 
So  I  applied  to  Dr.  Marshall »  for  any  sort  of  sleeping-draught, 
which  had  no  opium  in  it,  to  break,  if  possible,  this  spell  at  the  out- 
set. He  gave  me  something,  consisting  of  red-lavender  and  other 
stimulants,  which  '  took  an  effect  on  me.'  •»  Not  that  I  swallowed 
it!  I  merely  set  it  by  my  bedside;  and  the  feeling  of  lying  down 
under  new  circumstances,  of  having  a  resource  in  short,  put  me  to 
sleep!  One  night,  indeed,  the  imagination  was  not  enough;  and  I 
did  take  the  thing  into  my  inside,  where  it  made  all  '  cosy ' ;  ^  and 
since  then  I  have  slept  as  well  as  usual ;  nor  did  these  bad  nights  do 


1  Converse  of  Goody. 

9  There  was  a  piper  had  a  cow, 
And  he  had  nocht  to  give  her; 
He  took  his  pipes,  and  played  a  spring, 
And  bade  the  cow  consider. 

The  cow  considered  wi'  hersel' 
That  mirth  [sportful  music]  wad  ne'er  fill  her: 
'  Gie  me  a  pickle  pease-strae. 
And  sell  your  wind  for  siller.' 
Old  Scotch  rhyme,  reckoned  'pawky,'  clever  and  symbolical,  in  this  house. 
Oloire  !  donnez-moi  du  pain ! 

3  Next-door  neighbour  this  Dr.  M.,  faithful  but  headlong  and  fanatical. 
His  wife  was  from  Edinburgh,  a  kind  of  'Haddington  Wilkie '  withal;  died 
not  long  after.  Dr.  M.,  unsuccessful  otherwise,  then  volunteered  upon  some 
Philo-Nigger  Expedition— scandalously  sanctioned  by  a  Government  in  need 
of  votes,  though  he  considered  it  absurd— and  did  die,  like  the  others,  a  few 
days  after  reaching  the  poisonous,  swampy  river  they  were  sent  to  navigate. 

4  Rigorous  navy  lieutenant:  'Why,  Richard,  you're  drunk! '  '  I've  'ad  my 
allowance,  sir,  and  it's  took  an  effect  on  me,'  answered  Richard  (Richard  Kec- 
vil,  a  wandering,  innocent  creature  from  the  Gloucester  cloth  countries  lat- 
terly, who  came  to  my  father's  in  a  starving  state,  and  managed  gently  to  stay 
five  or  six  months— a  favourite,  and  study,  with  us  younger  ones). 

*  'Mamma,  wine  makes  cosy,'  Reminiscences,  p.  218.    Harper's  Edition. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  m 

me  any  visible  harm.  Helen  '  asks  me  every  morning  'if  I  have  no 
headache  yet?'  And  when  I  answer,  none,  she  declares  it  to  be 
quite  'mysterious! '  In  fact,  I  believe  Mrs.  Elliot's  cub  is  of  very 
material  service  in  keeping  me  well.  And  I  hope  you  will  become 
a  great  Paid,  and  then  we  shall  sometimes  have  a  'bit  clatch.'* 
I  have  driven  out  most  days,  from  two  till  four,  quite  regularly.  I 
also  take  care  to  have  some  dinner  quite  regularlj'.  And  I  contrive 
to  sup  on  Cape  Madeira,  which  seems  to  be  as  good  for  me  as  por- 
ridge, after  all.  For  the  rest,  my  chief  study  is  to  keep  myself  tran- 
quil and  cheerful;  convinced  that  I  can  do  nothing  so  useful,  either 
for  myself  or  others.  Accordingly,  I  read  French  novels,  or  any- 
thing that  diverts  me,  without  compunction;  and  sew  no  more,  at 
curtains  or  anything  else,  than  I  feel  to  be  pleasant. 

For  company,  I  have  had  enough  to  satisfy  all  my  social  wants. 
One  visitor  per  day  would  content  me ;  and  I  have  often  had  more. 
Two  tea-shines  ^  went  off  with  eclat,  the  more  so  that  the  people 
came,  for  most  part,  at  their  own  peril.  The  first  consisted  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Crawfurd,  George  Rennie  and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Sterling,  D 
Conte,  Darwin,  and  Robert  Barker,*  who  was  up  from  Northampton 
on  leave  of  absence.  Do  you  shriek  at  the  idea  of  all  this?  You 
need  not.  "We  all  talked  through  other  ^  (except  Barker,  who,  by 
preserving  uninterrupted  silence,  passed  for  some  very  wise  man); 
and  we  were  all  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  doing  each  our  part 
to  '  stave  off '  ennui,  though  it  were  by  nothing  better  than  non- 
sense. The  next  was  a  more  rational  piece  of  work;  but  more 
'insipid':®  Mrs.  Rich,'  and  her  two  sisters,  the  Marshalls,  Mrs. 
Sterling,  and  the  always  to  be  got  Darwin.  We  talked  about  the 
condition  of  the  poor,  &c.,  &c.,  one  at  a  time;  and  I  am  sure  the 
saints  think  that,  all  this  while,  my  light  has  been  hid  under  a 
bushel — that,  in  fact,  they  have  '  discovered  me.'  They  kissed  me 
all  over,  when  they  went  away,  and  would  have  me  out  to  Plum- 
stead  Common.    Then  I  had  Mr.  C one  night,  to  whom  I  prated 


>  Helen  was  a  new  maid,  of  whom  more  hereafter. 

"  Brother  James's  name  for  a  humble  gig,  or  the  like.  To  '  clatcli '  is  to 
draf;  lumberingly. 

^  Scotch  peasant's  term  for  such  phenomena. 

•*  Amiable  Nithsdale  gentleman,  a  lieutenant  of  foot,  who  had  seen  service, 
nearly  killed  at  New  Orleans,  &c. 

^  German,  durch  einander.  «  Servant  Helen's  term. 

''  Daughter  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh;  among  other  elderly  religious  ladies, 
was  a  chief  admirer  of  Rev.  A.  Scott,  now  nestled  silently  at  Plumstead  (died 
recently  professor  in  Owens  College,  Manchester). 

3* 


58  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

so  cleverly  about  domestic  service,  and  all  that,  that  his  eyes 
twinkled  the  purest  admiration,  through  his  spectacles;  and,  two 

days  after,  he  returned  with  Mrs.  C !  to  he^r  me  again  on  the 

same  topics.  But  catch  me  flinging  my  pearls  before  swine!  But, 
oh,  dear  me,  dearest,  how  the  paper  is  getting  covered  over  with 
absolute  nothings;  and  I  have  really  something  to  tell. 

I  have  to  tell  you  one  very  wonderful  thing  indeed,  which 
brought  a  sort  of  tears  into  my  eyes.  The  first  money  from  F.  R.' 
is  come  to  hand,  in  the  shape  of  a  bill  of  exchange  for  fifty  pounds, 
inclosed  in  a  short  business  letter  from  Emerson.  He  says:  'An 
account  has  been  rendered  to  me,  which,  though  its  present  bal- 
ance is  in  our  favour,  is  less  than  I  expected ;  yet,  as  far  as  I  under- 
stand, it  agrees  well  with  all  that  has  been  promised.  At  least,  the 
balance  in  our  favour,  when  the  edition  is  sold,  which  the  booksel- 
lers assure  me  will  undoubtedly  be  done  within  a  year  from  the 
publication,  must  be  760  dollars,  and  whatever  more  Heaven  and 
the  subscribers  may  grant.'  You  are  to  know,  dear,  fifty  pounds  is 
exactly  $224.22,  the  rate  of  exchange  being  9  percent.  He  says 
nothing  more,  except  that  he  will  send  a  duplicate  of  the  bill  by 
next  packet;  and  that  'the  Miscellanies  is  published  in  two  vol- 
umes, a  copy  of  which  goes  to  you  immediately;  250  copies  are 
already  sold.'  So  you  see,  dear,  here  is  Fortune  actually  smiling 
on  you  over  the  seas,  witli  her  lap  full  of  dollars.  Pray  you,  don't 
you  be  bashful;  but  smile  on  her  in  return.  Another  bit  of  good 
luck  lies  in  the  shape  of  a  little  hamper,  full  of  Madeira,  the  Cal- 
vert wine — I  have  not  unpacked  it  yet ;  but  I  guess  it  holds  a  dozen. 
I  too  am  to  have  some  wine  given  me.  John  Sterling  has  desired 
his  wine  merchant,  on  receiving  a  certain  basketful  of  Malmsey 
from  Madeira  for  him,  to  send  some  fraction  of  it  to  me. 

He  himself,  John  Sterling,  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear,  is  off 
this  day  for  good.  He  spends  a  week  in  settling  his  family  at  Hast- 
ings, and  then  proceeds  to  Italy.  Such  is  the  order  of  Sir  James 
Clark,  and  his  own  whim!  He  breakfasted  with  me  this  morning, 
to  take  leave ;  apparently  in  perfect  health,  and  almost  too  good 
spirits,  I  think.  I  told  him,  he  seemed  to  me  a  man  who  had  a  dia- 
mond given  him  to  keep,  which  he  was  in  danger  of  breaking  all 
down  into  sparks,  that  everyone  might  have  a  breastpin  of  it.  He 
looked  as  Edward  Irving  used  to  do.  I  do  not  think  that,  morally, 
he  is  at  all  in  a  good  way — too  much  of  virtue  '  and  all  that '  on  the 
lips.     Woe  to  him  if  he  fall  into  the  net  of  any  beautiful  Italian! 

*  French  Revolution. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  59 

People  who  are  so  dreadfully  '  devoted '  to  their  wives  are  so  apt, 
from  mere  habit,  to  get  devoted  to  other  people's  wives  as  well! 

Except  Emerson's,  there  have  been  no  letters  for  you;  and  of 
threepennies,  only  one  of  apology  from  Wilson,  along  with  that 
Globe;  and  one  from  your  namesake,  •  wanting  letters  to  '  Germany, 
with  which  he  wants  to  acquaint  himself ' — or  rather,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  truth,  where  he  is  going  as  a  missionary  (so  Dr.  Marshall 
tells  me).     I  answered  it  politely. 

I  must  not  conclude  without  telling  you  a  most  surprising  pur- 
pose 1  have  in  my  head,  which,  if  you  have  heard  of  O'Connell's 
late  visit  to  a  La  Trappean  Monastery,  you  will  not  be  quite  in- 
credulous of.  I  am  actually  meditating  to  spend  a  week  with — 
Miss  Wilson  at  Ramsgate!  !  To  do  penance  for  all  the  nonsense  I 
speak,  by  dooming  myself,  for  one  whole  week,  to  speak  nothing 
but  real  sense,  and  no  mistake!  She  wrote  me  the  most  cordial 
mvitation,  and  not  to  me  only,  but  to  Helen,  whom  she  knew  I  did 
not  like  to  leave ;  for  three  weeks  I  was  to  come.  I  answered  in  a 
long  letter,  which  you  would  have  liked  amazingly,  if  you  had  had 
the  good  luck  to  hear  it,  that  when  I  heard  from  John,-  if  there  was 
time  before  his  arrival,  I  would  absolutely  accept.  I  have  had 
another  letter  from  her  since,  gracious  beyond  expression ;  and  am 
really  meaning  to  lock  up,  and  go  with  Helen  for  a  week,  if  John 
does  not  come  all  the  sooner.  Address  to  me  always  here,  how- 
ever; as  Dr.  Marshall  will  send  on  my  letters  imtanter.  They  are 
touchingly  kind  to  me,  these  good  Marshalls; — got  up  a  dinnerchen, 
«&c.,  &c.  Everybody  is  kind  to  me.  Only  I  have  put  the  Stima- 
bile  in  a  great  fuff— purposely,  that  I  might  not  have  him  dangling 
here  in  your  absence.  Thus  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  get  a  frank. 
But  you  will  not  grudge  postage,  even  for  this  worthless  letter, 
since  it  is  mine. 

I  have  not  heard  from  my  mother,  nor  written  to  her  yet,  so  I 
know  not  where  she  is.  I  have  forgot  a  thousand  things.  Madame 
Marcet  has  not  been  yet; — is  to  come,^ — a  friend  from  Paris  has  de- 
prived her  of  the  pleasure,  &c.  Cavaignac  was  here  last  Friday. 
Edgeworth  has  been ;  wanted  me  out  to  Windsor.  The  blockhead 
Hume*  came  to  tea  one  night!  No  Americans!  No  strangers! 
Darwin  is  going  off  to  the  Wedgewoods  with  Mrs.  Rich.  Thank 
you  for  the  particulars  to  Helen.     Yes,  try  and  see  her  mother. 

1  Angel,  at  Albury,  editor  of  the  Qlobe  newspaper. 

2  John  Carlyle,  then  expected  in  London. 

3  Never  did,  I  think.  *  Ambitious  thickhead. 


60  LETTERS  AKD  MEMORIALS  OF 

She  is  very  kind  to  me.     Get  very  very  well;  and  come  back  so 
good !  and  so  pooty. 

Say  all  that  is  kind  and  grateful  from  me  to  the  good  Ferguses. 
And  tell  Elizabeth  I  will  write  her  a  long  letter  one  of  these  days 
— to  be  also  in  no  sorrow  about  Pepoli.  He  is  merely  lackadaisical. 
God  bless  you,  dearest.  Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  soil  your  mind 
with  a  thought  of  postage;  but  write  again  quick.  Be  sure  you  go 
to  Minto.'  J.  W.  C. 

LETTER   21. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Sunday,  Sept.  10, 1838. 

Thou  precious  cheap! — I  am  rejoiced  to  find  you  working  out 
your  plan  so  strenuously  and  steadily.  That  is  really  oue  kind  of 
virtue  which  does  seem  to  me  always  its  own  reward.  To  have 
done  the  thing  one  meant  to  do,  let  it  turn  out  as  it  may,  '  is  a 
good  joy.''  You  will  come  home  to  me  '  more  than  plumb,'  with 
conscious  manhood,  after  having  reaped  such  a  harvest  of  '  realised 
ideals.' 

For  me,  I  am  purposely  living  without  purpose,  from  hand  to 
mouth,  as  it  were,  taking  the  good  the  gods  provide  me,  and,  as 
much  as  possible,  shirking  the  evil — a  manner  of  existence  which 
seems  to  suit  my  constitution  very  well,  for  I  have  not  had  a  single 
headache  these  three  weeks,  nor  any  bodily  ailment,  except  occa- 
sional touches  of  that  preternatural  intensity  of  sensation,  which, 
if  one  did  not  know  it  to  be  the  consequence  of  sleeplessness, 
would  pass  for  perfection  of  health  rather  than  ailment;  and  which 
I  study  to  keep  down  with  such  dullifying  appliances  as  offer  them- 
selves, in  dearth  of  '  a  considerable  bulk  of  porridge. '  The  people 
are  very  attentive  to  me — almost  too  attentive;  for  they  make  me 
talk  more  than  is  for  the  good  of  my  soul,  and  go  through 
a  power  of  my  tea  and  bread  and  butter!  Nay,  Cavaignac 
was  found  sitting  yesterday  when  I  came  home  from  my  drive,  and 
said,  with  all  the  cold-bloodedness  imaginable,  '  Voulez-vous  me 
donner  a  diner,  madame  ? ' — an  astounding  question  to  a  woman 
whose  whole  earthly  prospects  in  the  way  of  dinner  were  bounded 
there  and  then  to  one  fried  sole  and  two  pommes  de  terre !    And 

1  To  the  manse  there  (reverend  couple  being  old  acquaintances  of  both 
of  us). 
"  One  of  Leigh  Hunt's  children,  on  the  sight  of  flowers. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  61 

when  this  sumptuous  repast  was  placed  on  the  table,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  a  spoonful  of  improvised  hash,  he  sat  down  to  it  exclaim- 
ing, a  plusieurs  reprises :  '  Mon  Dieu,  comme  faifaim,  moil '  How- 
ever, as  Helen  remarked,  '  It's  nae  matter  what  ye  gie  him;  for  he 
can  aye  mak  the  bread  flee ! ' 

Our  first  two  volumes  of  the  'Miscellanies'  are  published.  I 
have  sent  you  a  copy.  The  edition  consists  of  1,000  copies;  of 
these  500  are  bound,  500  remainMn  sheets.  The  title-pages,  of 
course,  are  all  printed  alike ;  but  the  publishers  assure  me  that  new 
title-pages  can  be  struck  off  at  a  trifling  expense,  with  the  imprint 
of  Saunders  and  Otley.  The  cost  of  a  copy  in  sheets  or  '  folded ' 
is  89  cents,  and  bound  is  $1.15  cents.  The  retail  price  is  $2.50 
cents  a  copy,  and  the  author's  proflt  is  $1.00,  and  the  bookseller's 
35  cents  per  copy,  according  to  my  understanding  of  the  written 
contract.  (All  of  which  I  have  written  off  with  faith  and  hope, 
but  with  infinite  ennui,  not  understanding  an}""  more  of  cents  than 
of  hieroglyphics.)  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  but  the  book  will  sell 
very  well  there ;  but  if,  for  the  reasons  you  suggest,  you  wish  any 
part  of  it,  you  can  have  it  as  soon  as  ships  can  bring  your  will. 
We  have  printed  half  the  matter.  I  should  presently  begin  to 
print  the  remainder,  inclusive  of  the  article  on  Scott  in  two  more 
volumes;  but  now  I  think  I  shall  wait  until  I  hear  from  you.  Of 
tbose  books  we  will  print  a  larger  edition,  say  1,250  or  1,500,  if  you 
want  a  part  of  it  in  London;  for  I  feel  confident  now  that  our  pub- 
lic is  a  thousand  strong.  Write  me,  therefore,  by  the  steam-packet 
your  wishes.  So  you  can  '  consider,'  cheap! '  and  be  prepared  to 
answer  the  letter  when  I  send  it  in  a  day  or  two  in  the  lump. 

For  my  part,  I  think  I  should  vote  for  letting  these  good  Ameri- 
cans keep  their  own  wares;  they  seem  to  have  an  art,  unknown  in 
our  island,  of  getting  them  disposed  of.  I  can  say  nothing  of  bow 
'Sartor' 2  poor  beast!  is  going  on,  only  that  people  tell  me,  with 
provoking  vagueness,  from  time  to  time,  that  they  have  read  or 
heard  honourable  mention  of  it;  but  where,  or  when,  or  to  what 
possible  purport,  they  seem  bound  over  by  oath  to  be  quite  silent 
upon.  Mrs.  Buller,  for  example,  the  other  day  when  I  called  at 
her  house,  said  that  she  was  glad  to  find  it  succeeding.  '  Was  it 
succeeding? '  I  asked,  for  I  really  was  quite  ignorant.  Oh,  she  had 
heard  and  seen  the  most  honourable  notice  of  it.  The  individual 
most  agog  about  it  seems  to  be  the  young  Catholic,  whose  name,  I 
now  inform  and  beg  you  to  remember,  is  Mr.  T.  Chisholm  Anstey. 

>  Converse  of  '  dear.'  "  Lately  republished  from  Fraser'a  Magazine. 


62  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

He  sat  with  me  one  forenoon,  last  week,  for  a  whole  hour  and  a  half, 
rhapsodising  about  you  all  the  while;  a  most  judicious  young 
Catholic,  as  I  ever  saw  or  dreamt  of.  He  had  been  '  in  retreat,'  as 
they  call  it,  for  three  weeks — that  is  to  say,  in  some  Jesuit  La 
Trappe  establishment  in  the  north  of  England — absolutely  silent, 
which  he  was  sure  you  would  be  glad  to  hear;  and  he  is  going 
back  at  Christmas  to  hold  his  peace  for  three  weeks  more!  He  has 
written  an  article  on  you  for  the  'Dublin  Review,'  which  is  to  be 
sent  to  me  as  soon  as  published,  and  the  Jesuits,  he  says,  are  en- 
chanted with  all  they  find  in  you.  Your  '  opinions  about  sacrifice, 
&c.,  &c.,  are  entirely  conformable  to  theirs!'  'After  all,'  said 
Darwin  the  other  day,  '  what  the  deuce  is  Carlyle's  religion,  or  has 
he  any? '  I  shook  my  head,  and  assuerd  him  I  knew  no  more  than 
himself.  I  told  Mr.  Chisholm  Anstey  I  could  not  give  him  the 
lecture-book,  as  I  was  copying  it.  '  You  copying  it! '  he  exclaimed 
in  enthusiasm;  '  indeed  you  shall  not  have  that  toil;  I  will  copy  it 
for  you ;  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  write  them  all  a  second 
time! '  So  you  may  give  him  the  ten  sliillings;  for  he  actually  took 
away  the  book,  and  what  I  had  done  of  it,  par  vive  force  !  I  wish 
some  other  of  your  admirers  would  carry  off  the  bed-curtains  by 
vite  force,  and  finish  them  also;  for,  though  I  have  had  a  sempstress 
helping  me  for  three  days,  they  are  still  in  hand.  Perhaps  a  Swe- 
denborgian  will  do  that? 

Baron  von  Alsdorf  came  here  the  other  night,  seeking  your  ad- 
dress, to  write  to  you  for  a  testimonial.  '  Such  is  the  lot  of  celeb- 
rity i'  the  world.' 1  Oh!  niy  'Revolution'  and  'Sartor'  are  come 
home,  such  loves  of  books!  quite  beautiful;  but  such  a  price!  seven 
shillings  per  volume!  for  half-binding!  '  Was  there  ever  anything 
in  the  least  like  it?'-  The  Fraserian  functionary  seemed  almost 
frightened  to  tell  me;  but  seeing  I  could  make  nothing  of  debating 
about  it,  I  contented  myself  with  saying:  'Well,  "French  Revolu- 
tions" are  not  written  every  day,  and  the  outside  should  be  some- 
thing worthy  of  the  in.'  The  man,  apparently  struck  with  admira- 
tion of  my  sincerity  and  contempt  of  money,  bowed  involuntarily, 
and  said,  'It  is  indeed  a  book  that  cannot  have  too  much  expense 
put  upon  it.'  '  Why  the  deuce,  then,'  I  was  tempted  to  answer, '  don't 
you  give  us  something  for  it?'  Tlie  'German  Romance  '  is  to  be 
done  in  calf  at  3s.  Qcl.  a  volume.  Do  not  trouble  your  head  about 
my  investing  so  much  capital  in  the  binding  of  these  books.  With 
such  a  prospect  of  cents,  it  were  sheer  parsimony  not  to  give  them 

»  Parodied  from  Schiller.  *  Common  phrase  of  her  mother's. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  63 

£1  good  dress.  I  have  unpacked  your  wine,  and  even  tasted  it;  and 
lo!  it  proves  to  be  two  dozen  pint  bottles  of  exquisite  port!  wbicli 
disagrees  with  j'ou.  Did  you  not  understand  it  was  to  have  been 
Madeira?  My  Malmsey  is  not  come  yet.  How  I  laughed,  and 
how  Cavaignac  shouted  at  your  encounter  with  Mrs.  'ickson.' '  In- 
deed, your  whole  letter  was  most  entertaining  and  satisfactory.  Do 
not  be  long  in  sending  me  another;  they  are  very  refreshing,  espe- 
cially when  they  praise  me!  '■^  This  is  not  so  good  '  a  return '  as  I 
could  wish  to  make  you;  but  in  a  single  sheet  one  is  obliged  to 
manger  all  superfluous  details,  though  these  are  more  interesting  to 
the  absent  than  more  important  matter.  Robertson  called  on  me 
the  other  day,  wondering  if  you  were  writing  anything  for  him. 
He  has  had  a  splutter  with  Leigh  Hunt — always  spluttering.  He 
talked  much  of  Harriet's  'tail  of  hundreds'  at  Newcastle^  till  I 
could  not  help  fancying  her  as  one  of  those  sheep  Herodotus  tells 
about.  I  wonder  how  many  things  I  have  forgotten?  Kind  re- 
gards to  them  all,  and  to  yourself  what  you  can  say  of  most  affec- 
tionate. I  drive  almost  every  day.  Elizabeth's  letter  is  not  come 
yet;  but  I  will  write  forthwith  whether  or  no. 

Your  unfortunate 

GOODT. 

LETTER  22. 

A  postscript  at  almost  half  a  year's  distance.  These  are  the  lec- 
ture years,  1837-40;  this  year's  lecture  (for  it  is  'April  12  ')  would 
be  within  three  weeks. 

'  First  rush  o'  ye  tea,'  intelligible  now  only  to  myself,  was  at  that 
time  full  of  mirth,  ingenuity,  and  humour  in  the  quarter  it  was 
going  to!  My  mother,  many  years  before,  on  the  eve  of  an  Eccle- 
fechan  Fair,  happened  in  the  gloaming  to  pass  one  Martha  Calvert's 
door,  a  queer  old  cripple  creature  who  used  to  lodge  vagrants,  beg- 
gars, ballad-singers,  snap-women,  &c.,  such  as  were  wont,  copi- 
ously enough  (chiefly  from  the  'Brig-end  of  Dumfries'),  to  visit 
us  on  these  occasions.  Two  beggar-women  were  pleasantly  chat- 
ting, or  taking  sweet  counsel,  outside  in  the  quiet  summer  dusk, 
when  a  third  started  out,  eagerly  friendly,  'Come  awa',  haste;  t' 
ye  first  rush  o'  ye  tea! '  (general  tea  inside,  just  beginning,  first  rush 
of  it  far  superior  to  third  or  fourth!) 

'God's  Providence.'  Peg  Ir'rin  (Irving,  a  memorable  old  bread- 
and-ale  woman,  extensively  prepared  to  vend  these  articles  at  Mid- 
dlebie  Sacrament)  could  not  by  entreaty  or  logic  (her  husband  had 
fought  at  Bunker's  Hill)  extort  from  the  parish  official  (ruling 
elder)  liberty  to  use  the   vacant  school-house  for  that  purpose, 

•  Hickson,  suddenly  in  Princes  Street,  Edinburgh,  poor  woman  I 

*  Vide  Cicero.  "  Scientific  meeting. 


64:  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

whereupon  Peg,  with  a  toss  of  her  foolish  high  head  (a  Imid, 
absurd,  empty  woman,  though  an  empty  especially  of  any  mis- 
chief), 'Ah  well;  thou  canna  cut  me  out  of  God's  Providence.'— 
T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotshrig,  Ecclefechan. 

April  12,  1839. 

My  dear  Mother, — It  were  much  pleasanter  to  write  to  you  if, 
besides  white  paper  he  would  leave  me  something  to  say.  But 
away  he  goes,  skimming  over  everything,  whipping  off  the  cream 
of  everything,  and  leaves  me  nothing  but  the  blue  milk  to  make 
you  a  feast  of.  The  much  best  plan  for  me  were  to  take  the  start 
of  him,  and  have  the  '  first  rush  o'  ye  tea  'to  myself;  as  I  positively 
design  to  do  in  lecture  time,  when  there  will  be  something  worth 
while  to  tell. 

We  see  Jeffrey  often  since  he  came  to  London,  and  he  is  very 
friendly  still,  'though  he  could  not  cut  us  out  of  God's  Provi- 
dence.' We  had  a  Roman  Catholic  Frenchman  ^  flying  about  us,  at 
a  prodigious  rate,  last  week,  but  he  has  left  London  for  the  present. 
He  told  us  all  about  how  he  went  to  confession,  &c.,  &c.,  and  how 
he  had  been  demoralised  at  one  period,  and  was  recovered  by  the 
spectacle  of  a  holy  procession.  He  seems  a  very  excellent  man  in 
his  own  way,  but  one  cannot  quite  enter  into  his  ecstasies  about 
white  shirts  and  wax  tapers,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  I  hope  you 
are  all  well,  and  thinking  of  me,  as  heretofore,  with  kindness;  this 
is  cruel  weather  for  Isabella  and  you  and  me. 

Ever  affectionately  j'ours, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  23. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig,  Ecclefechan. 

Chelsea:  May  6, 1839. 
My  dear  Mother, — Our  second  lecture  'transpired'  yesterday, 
and  with  surprising  success — literally  surprising — for  he  was  im- 
puting the  profound  attention  with  which  the  audience  listened,  to 
an  awful  sympathising  expectation  on  their  part  of  a  momentary 
break-down,  when  all  at  once  they  broke  into  loud  plaudits,  and  he 
thought  they  must  all  have  gone  clean  out  of  their  wits !  But,  as 
does  not  happen  always,  the  majority  were  in  this  instance  in  the 

1  A.  M.   Rio,  once  very  current  in  London  society;   vanished  now  many 
years,  ago. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  65 

right,  and  it  was  lie  that  was  out  of  his  wits  to  fancy  himself  mak- 
ing a  stupid  lecture,  when  the  fact  is  he  really  cannot  be  stupid  if 
it  were  to  save  his  life.  Tlie  short  and  long  of  it  was,  he  had  neg- 
lected to  take  a  pill  the  day  before,  had  neglected  to  get  himself  a 
ride,  and  was  out  of  spirits  at  the  beginning;  even  I,  who  consider 
myself  an  unprejudiced  judge,  did  not  think  he  was  talking  his 
best,  or  anything  like  his  best;  the  'splendids,'  'devilish  fines,' 
'most  trues,'  and  all  that,  which  I  heard  heartily  ejaculated  on  all 
sides,  showed  that  it  was  a  sort  of  mercy  in  him  to  come  with 
bowels  in  a  state  of  derangement,  since,  if  his  faculties  had  had 
full  play,  the  people  must  have  been  all  sent  home  in  a  state  of  ex- 
citement bordering  on  frenzy.  The  most  practical  good  feature  in 
the  business  was  a  considerable  increase  of  hearers — even  since  last 
day;  the  audience  seems  to  me  much  larger  than  last  year,  and 
even  more  distinguished.  The  whole  street  was  blocked  up  with 
'fine  yellow'  (and  all  other  imaginable  coloured)  'deliveries;'^  and 
this  is  more  than  merely  a  dangerous  flattery  to  one's  vanity,  the 
fashionable  people  here  being  (unlike  our  Scotch  gigmen  and  gig- 
women),  the  most  open  to  light  (above  all  to  his  light)  of  any  sorts 
of  people  one  has  to  do  with.  Even  John  Knox,  though  they  must 
have  been  very  angry  at  him  for  demolishing  so  much  beautiful 
architecture,  which  is  quite  a  passion  with  the  English,  they  were 
quite  willing  to  let  good  be  said  of,  so  that  it  were  indisputably 
true.  Nay,  it  was  in  reference  to  Knox  that  they  first  applauded 
yesterday.  Perhaps  his  being  a  countryman  of  their  favourite 
lecturer's  might  have  something  to  do  with  it!  But  we  will  hope 
better  things,  though  we  thus  speak.* 

You  will  find  nothing  about  us  in  the  Examiner  of  this  week; 
Leigh  Hunt,  who  writes  the  notices  there,  did  not  arrive  at  the  first 
lecture  in  time  to  make  any  report  of  it,  having  come  in  an  omni- 
bus which  took  it  in  its  head  to  run  a  race  with  another  omnibus, 
after  a  rather  novel  fashion,  that  is  to  say,  each  trying  which  should 
be  hindmost.  We  go  to  lecture  this  year  very  commodiously  in 
what  is  called  a  fly  (a  little  chaise  with  one  horse),  furnished  us 
from  a  livery-stable  hard  by,  at  a  very  moderate  rate.  Yesterday 
the  woman  who  keeps  these  stables  sent  us  a  flunkey  more  than 
bargain,  in  consideration  that  I  was  '  such  a  very  nice  lady  ' — show- 
ing therein  a  spirit  above  slavery  and  even  above  livery.    Indeed, 

'  '  Fine  yallow  deliveries  and  a' ! '  exclaimed  a  goosey  maid-servant  at  Main- 
hill,  seeing  a  carriage  pass  in  the  distance  once  (in  little  Craw  Jean's  bearing). 
'  Common  preachers'  phrase  in  Scotland. 


66  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

as  a  foolish  old  woman  at  Dumfries  used  to  say,  '  everybody  is  kind 
to  me;'  and  I  take  their  kindness  and  am  grateful  for  it,  without 
inquiring  too  closely  into  their  motives.  Perhaps  I  am  a  genius 
too,  as  well  as  my  husband?  Indeed,  I  really  begin  to  think  so — 
especially  since  yesterday  that  I  wrote  down  a  parrot!  which  was 
driving  us  quite  desperate  with  its  screeching.  Some  new  neigh- 
bours, that  came  a  month  or  two  ago,  brought  with  them  an  ac- 
cumulation of  all  the  things  to  be  guarded  against  in  a  London 
neighbourhood,  viz.,  a  pianoforte,  a  lap-dog,  and  a  parrot.  The  two 
first  can  be  borne  with,  as  they  cany  on  the  glory  within  doors; 
but  the  parrot,  since  the  fine  weather,  has  been  holding  forth  in  the 
garden  under  our  open  windows.  Yesterday  it  was  more  than 
usually  obstreperous — so  that  Carlyle  at  last  fairly  sprang  to  his 
feet,  declaring  he  could  '  neither  think  nor  live.'  Now  it  was  ab- 
solutely necessary  that  he  should  do  both.  So  forthwith,  on  the 
inspiration  of  conjugal  sympathy,  I  wrote  a  note  to  the  parrot's 
mistress  (name  unknown),  and  in  five  minutes  after  Pretty  Polly 
was  carried  within,  and  is  now  screeching  from  some  subterranean 
depth  whence  she  is  hardly  audible.  Now  if  you  will  please  recol- 
lect that,  at  Comely  Bank,  I  also  wrote  down  an  old  maid's  house- 
dog, and  an  only  son's  pet  bantam-cock,'  j^ou  will  admit,  I  think, 
that  my  writings  have  not  been  in  vain. 

We  have  been  very  comfortable  in  our  household  this  long  while. 
My  little  Fif eshire  maid  grows  always  the  longer  the  better ;  and 
never  seems  to  have  a  thought  of  leaving  us,  any  more  than  we 
have  of  parting  with  her.  My  kindest  love  to  all  the  '  great  na- 
tion '  into  which  you  are  grown. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Cabltle. 

LETTER  24. 

Lectures  finished,  with  again  a  hint  of  notice.  This  was  not  my 
last  course  of  lectures;  but  I  infinitely  dislike  the  operation — 'a 
mixture  of  prophecy  and  play-acting,'  in  which  I  could  not  adjust 
myself  at  all,  and  deeply  longed  to  see  the  end  of. — T.  C. 

To  Mrs,  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig,  Ecclefechan. 

Chelsea:  May  20, 1839. 
My  dear  Mother, — The  last  lecture  was  indeed  the  most  splendid 
he  ever  delivered,  and  the  people  were  all  in  a  heart-fever  over  it; 

>  True  instances  both;  the  first  of  many  hundreds,  which  lasted  till  the  very 
end. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  67 

on  all  sides  of  me  people  who  did  not  know  me,  and  might  there- 
fore be  believed,  were  expressing  their  raptures  audibly.  One  man 
(a  person  of  originally  large  fortune,  which  he  got  tlirough  in  an 
uncommon  way,  namely,  in  acts  of  benevolence)  was  saying,  '  He's 
a  glorious  fellow ;  I  love  the  fellow's  very  faults,' &c.,  &c. ;  while 
another  answered,  'Aj^e,  faith,  is  he;  a  fine,  wild,  chaotic,  noble 
chap,'  and  so  on  over  the  whole  room.  In  short  we  left  the  con- 
cern in  a  sort  of  whirlwind  of  '  glory'  not  without  '  bread  ';  one  of 
the  dashing  facts  of  the  day  being  a  Queen's  carriage  at  the  door, 
wliich  had  come  with  some  of  the  household.  Another  thing  I 
noticed,  of  a  counter  tendency  to  one's  vanity,  was  poor  Mrs. 
Edward  Irving  sitting  opposite  me,  in  her  weeds,  with  sorrowful 
heart  enough,  I  dare  say.  And  when  I  thought  of  her  lot  and  all 
the  things  that  must  be  passing  through  her  heart,  to  see  her  hus- 
band's old  friend  there,  carrying  on  the  glory  in  his  turn,  while 
hers — What  was  it  all  come  to!  She  seemed  to  me  set  there  ex- 
pressly to  keep  me  in  mind  '  that  I  was  but  a  woman;'  ^  like  the 
skeleton  which  the  old  Egyptians  placed  at  table,  in  their  feasts,  to 
be  a  memorial  of  their  latter  end. 

My  love  to  them  all — and  surely  I  will  write  a  long  letter  to  Jane 
before  long;  who  is  very  foolish  to  imagine  I  ever  had,  or  could 
have,  any  reason  for  silence  towards  her,  other  than  my  natural 
dislike  to  letter-writing. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 


'After  lectures,'  Carlyle  writes,  'and  considerable  reading  for 
"  Cromwell,"  talking  about  scheme  of  Loudon  library,  struggling 
and  concocting  towards  what  proved  "  Chartism,"  and  more  of  the 
like,  we  set  out  together  for  Scotland  by  Liverpool  about  July  2  or 
3,  for  Scotsbrig  both  of  us  in  the  first  place,  then  she  to  Templand 
as  headquarters,  and,  after  leaving  here,  then  to  return  to  Scots- 
brig,  all  which  took  effect,  my  remembrance  of  it  now  very  indis- 
tinct.' 

While  absent  from  him,  Mrs.  Carlyle  paid  a  visit  to  Ayr.  As 
she  was  returning  in  the  coach,  Carlyle  says  in  a  note:  '  a  fellow- 
passenger  got  talking — "So  you  are  from  London,  ma'am,  and 
know  literary  people?     Leigh  Hunt?  ah,  so,"  &c.,   "and  do  jo\i 


'  The  Corporate  Weavers  at  Dumfries  elected  a  deacon,  or  chief  of  weavers, 
who  was  excessively  flattered  by  the  honour.  In  the  course  of  the  installa- 
tion dinner,  at  some  high  point  of  the  hep-hep  hurrahing,  he  exclaimed,  with 
sweet  pain, '  Oh,  gentlemen,  remember  I  am  but  a  man  1 '— T.  C.  Mrs.  Carlyle 
tells  the  story  of  a  Bailie  at  Annan,  see  p.  54.— J.  A.  F. 


68  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

know  anything  of  Thomas  Carlyle?"  "Him;  right  well— I  am  his 
wife,"  which  had  evidently  pleased  her  little  heart.' 

The  winter  which  followed,  she  had  a  violent  chronic  cold,  sad 
accompaniment  of  many  winters  thenceforth,  fiercely  torturing 
nervous  headache,  continuous  sometimes  for  three  days  and  nights. 
'  Never,'  says  her  husband,  '  did  I  see  such  suffering  from  ill-health 
borne  so  patiently  as  by  this  most  sensitive  of  delicate  creatures  all 
her  life  long.' 

She  had  an  extraordinary  power  of  attaching  to  her  everyone 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  In  a  letter  to  her  sister-iu-law, 
Mrs.  Aitken,  written  in  the  midst  of  her  illness,  she  says:  'My 
maid '  is  very  kind  when  I  am  laid  up ;  she  has  no  suggestions  or 
voluntary  help  in  her,  but  she  does  my  bidding  quietly  and  accu- 
rately, and  when  I  am  very  bad  she  bends  over  me  in  my  bed  as  if 
I  were  a  little  child,  and  rubs  her  cheek  on  mine — once  I  found  it 
wet  with  tears — one  might  think  one's  maid's  tears  could  do  little 
for  a  tearing  headache,  but  they  do  comfort  a  little.' 

During  this  suffering  time  she  wrote  little  and  briefly.  Carlyle 
was  preparing  his  last  course  of  lectures,  the  six  on  Heroes  and 
Hero  Worship,  which  were  delivered  in  the  coming  season.  He 
had  a  horse  now,  which  had  been  presented  to  liim  by  Mr.  Mar- 
shall, of  Leeds.  The  riding  improved  his  spirits,  but  his  nerves 
were  always  in  a  state  of  irritation  when  he  was  writing.  '  Why 
do  women  marry?'  she  says  in  a  little  note  to  John  Forster;  '  God 
knows,  unless  it  be  that,  like  the  great  Wallenstein,  they  do  not 
find  scope  enough  for  their  genius  and  qualities  in  an  easy  life. 

Night  it  must  be,  ere  Friedland's  star  shall  bum! ' 

In  the  summer  matters  were  made  worse  by  what  to  him  was  a 
most  serious  trial,  described  in  the  letter  which  follows.  He 
asked  Charles  Buller  if  there  were  no  means  by  which  he  could  be 
extricated.  Buller  said  he  knew  of  but  one.  '  He  could  register 
himself  as  a  Dissenting  preacher.'— J.  A.  F. 

LETTER  25. 

This  '  trial  by  jury '  was  a  Manchester  case  of  patents :  patent 
first,  for  an  improvement  on  cotton-wool  carding  machines;  patent 
second,  an  imitation  of  that,  query  theft  of  it  or  not?  Trial  fell  in 
two  terms  (same  unfortunate  jury),  and  lasted  three  or  four  days  in 
each.  Madder  thing  I  never  saw; — clear  to  myself  in  the  first  half- 
hour  ('  essential  theft '),  no  advocate  doing  the  least  good  to  it  far- 
ther, doing  harm  rather; — and  trial  costing  in  money,  they  said, 
1,000^.  a  day.  Recalcitrant  juryman  (one  of  the  '  Tales  '  sort),  stu- 
pidest-looking fellow  I  ever  saw — it  was  I  that  coaxed  him  round 
and  saved  a  new  trial  at  1,000^.  a  day.  Intolerable  suffering,  rage, 
almost  despair  (and  resolution  to  quit  London),  were,  on  my  part, 
the  consequence  of  these  jury-summonses,  which,  after  this,  hap- 

1  Kirkcaldy  Helen,  one  of  the  notabilities,  and  also  blessings,  of  our  exist- 
ence here.— T.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  69 

pened  to  abate  or  almost  cease.  On  hers,  corresponding  pity,  and 
at  length  no  end  of  amusement  over  my  adventure  with  that  stu- 
pidest of  jurymen,  &c.,  which  she  used  to  narrate  in  an  incompar- 
able manner.     Ah  me !     Ah  me ! 

'  Poor  fellow,  after  all ! '  was  very  often  finish  of  my  brother  in 
summing  up  his  censures  of  men — so  often  that  we  had  grown  to 
expect  it,  and  banter  it. — T.  C. 

To  the  Eeverend  John  Sterling,   Clifton. 

Chelsea:  Oct.  5,  1840. 

My  dear  John  'after  all,' — In  God's  name,  be  'a  hurdy-gurdy,' 
or  whatever  else  you  like!  You  are  a  good  man,  anyhow,  and  there 
needs  not  your  '  dying '  to  make  me  know  this  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  and  love  you  accordingly.  No,  my  excellent  Sir,  you  are  a 
blessing  which  one  knows  the  value  of  even  before  one  has  lost  it. 
And  it  is  just  because  I  love  you  better  than  most  people  that  I 
persecute  you  as  I  do;  that  I  flare  up  when  you  touch  a  hair  of  my 
head  (I  mean  my  moral  head).  So  now  we  are  friends  again,  are 
we  not?  If,  indeed,  through  all  our  mutual  impertinences,  we 
have  ever  been  anything  else ! 

You  see,  I  am  very  lamb-like  to-day;  indeed,  I  could  neither 
'quiz,'  nor  be  'polite'  to  you  to-day  for  the  whole  world.  The 
fact  is,  I  also  have  had  a  fit  of  illness,  which  has  softened  my 
mood,  even  as  yours  has  been  softened  by  the  same  cause.  These 
fits  of  illness  are  not  without  their  good  uses,  for  us  people  of  too 
poetic  temperaments.  For  my  part,  I  find  them  what  the  touching 
of  their  mother  earth  was  for  the  giants  of  old.  I  arise  from  them 
with  new  heart  in  me  for  the  battle  of  existence ;  and  you  know, 
or  ought  to  know,  what  a  woman  means  by  new  heart — not  new 
brute  force,  as  you  men  understand  by  it,  but  new  power  of  loving 
and  enduring. 

We  have  been  in  really  a  rather  deplorable  plight  here  for  a  good 
while  back,  ever  since  a  certain  trial  about  a  patent,  so  strangely 
are  things  linked  together  in  this  remarkable  world!  My  poor  man 
of  genius  had  to  sit  on  a  jury  two  days,  to  the  ruin  of  his  whole 
being,  physical,  moral,  and  intellectual.  And  ever  since,  he  has 
been  reacting  against  the  administration  of  British  justice,  to  a  de- 
gree that  has  finally  mounted  into  influenza  While  I,  poverina, 
have  been  reacting  against  his  reaction,  till  that  maladj--  called  by  the 
cockneys  '  mental  worry '  fairly  took  me  by  the  throat,  and  threw 
me  on  my  bed  for  a  good  many  days.  And  now  I  am  but  recov- 
ering, as  white  as  the  paper  I  write  upon,  and  carrying  my  head  as 


70  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

one  who  had  been  making  a  failed  attempt  at  suicide ;  for,  in  the 
ardour  of  my  medical  practice,  I  flayed  the  whole  neck  of  me  with 
a  blister.  So  you  see  it  is  a  good  proof  of  affection  that  I  here  give 
you,  in  writing  thus  speedily,  and  so  long  a  note. 

God  bless  you,  dear  John,  and  all  belonging  to  you.     With  all 
my  imperfections,  believe  rae  ever  faithfully  and  affectionately. 

Yours, 

Jane  Caklyle. 

No  lectures  to  be  this  spring,  or  evermore,  God  willing. 


LETTER  26. 

Impossible  to  date  with  accuracy;  the  poor  incident  I  recollect 
well  in  all  its  details,  but  not  the  point  of  time.  '  Helen  '  Mitchell, 
from  Kirkcaldy  (originally  from  Edinburgh),  must  have  come 
about  the  end  of  .1837;  she  stayed  with  us  (thanks  to  the  boundless 
skill  and  patience  of  her  mistress)  about  eleven  years;  and  was,  in 
a  sense,  the  only  servant  we  ever  got  to  belong  to  us,  and  be  one  of 
our  household,  in  ihis  place.  She  had  been  in  Rotterdam  before, 
and  found  Chevne  Walk  to  resemble  the  Boompjes  there  (which  it 
does).  Arrived  here,  by  cab,  in  a  wet  blustery  night,  which  I  re- 
member; seemed  to  have  cared  no  more  about  the  roar  and  tumtilt 
of  huge  Loudon  all  the  way  from  St.  Katherine's  Docks  hither,  than 
a  clucking  hen  would  have  done,  sitting  safe  in  its  hand-basket, 
and  looking  unconcerned  to  right  and  left.  A  very  curious  little 
being;  mixture  of  shrewdness,  accurate  observancy,  flashes  of  an 
insight  almost  genial,  with  utter  simplicity  and  even  folly.  A  sin- 
gular humble  loyalty  and  genuine  attachment  to  her  mistress  never 
failed  in  poor  Helen  as  the  chief  redeeming  virtues.  Endless  was 
her  mistress's  amusement  (among  other  feelings)  witli  the  talk  and 
ways  of  this  poor  Helen ;  which  as  reported  to  me,  in  their  native 
dialect  and  manner,  with  that  perfect  skill,  sportfuluess,  and  lov- 
ing grace  of  imitation,  were  to  me  also  among  the  most  amusing 
things  I  ever  heard.  E.g.  her  criticism  of  Arthur  Helps's  book 
(for  Helen  was  a  great  reader,  when  she  could  snatch  a  bit  of  time); 
criticism  of  Miss  Martineau's  (highly  didactic)  '  Maid  of  All  Work  ' 
— and  '  a  rail  insipid  trick  in  Darwin  to  tell  Miss  Martno! '  &c.,  &c. 
Poor  Helen,  well  does  she  deserve  this  bit  of  record  from  me. 
Her  end  was  sad,  and  like  a  thing  of  fate;  as  perhaps  will  be  no- 
ticed farther  on. 

This  letter  I  vaguely  incline  to  date  about  autumn  1840,  though 
sure  evidence  is  quite  wanting. 

'  Toam  tuik  ta  hint.'  Our  little  Craw  Jean  had  a  long,  inane, 
comically  solemn  dialogue  to  report  of  an  excellent  simple  old 
Mrs.  Clougli  (brother  Alick's  mother-in-law);  of  which  this  about 
'  Toam '  (her  own  Tom)  was  a  kind  of  cardinal  point  or  (solemnly 
inane)  corner-stone. 

'  Stream  of  time '  &c.,  '  Oh  Lord,  we're  a'  sailing  down  the  stream 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  71 

of  time  into  the  ocean  of  eternity:  for  Christ's  sake:  Amen,'  was 
the  Grace  before  meat  (according  to  myth)  of  some  extempore 
Christian  suddenly  called  on,  and  at  a  loss  for  words. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scoisbrig. 

Chelsea:  Autumn,  1840, 
Dear  Mother,— I  make  no  excuse  for  being  so  long  in  complying 
with  your  often-repeated  hint  that  I  should  write  to  you ;  it  is  for 
the  like  of  '  Tom  '  to  '  take  the  hint;'  but  for  me,  your  highly  origi- 
nal daughter-in-law,  I  am  far  beyond  hints,  or  even  direct  com- 
mands in  the  matter  of  letter-writing.  I  have  now,  in  fact,  no 
character  to  lose,  and  make  myself  quite  comfortable  in  the  reflec- 
tion that,  far  from  feeling  any  indignant  surprise  at  my  silence,  my 
friends  will  henceforth  receive  any  communication  I  may  vouch- 
safe them  in  the  course  of  years  as  an  unexpected  favour  for 
which  they  cannot  be  too  thankful.  What  do  I  do  with  my  time, 
you  wonder?  With  such  '  a  right  easy  seat  of  it,'  one  miglit  fancy, 
I  should  be  glad  to  write  a  letter  now  and  then,  just  to  keep  the 
devil  from  my  elbow.  But  Alick's  Jenny  and  all  of  you  were 
never  more  mistaken  than  when  you  imagine  a  woman  needs  half- 
a-dozen  children  to  keep  her  uneasy  in  a  hundred  ways  without 
that.  For  my  part,  I  am  always  as  busy  as  possible ;  on  that  side 
at  least  I  hold  out  no  encouragement  to  the  devil ;  and  yet,  suppose 
you  were  to  look  through  a  microscope,  you  might  be  puzzled  to 
discover  a  trace  of  what  I  do.  Nevertheless,  depend  upon  it,  my 
doings  are  not  lost;  but,  invisible  to  human  eyes,  they  'sail  down 
the  stream  of  time  into  the  ocean  of  eternity,'  and  who  knows  but 
I  may  find  them  after  many  days? 

At  present,  I  have  got  a  rather  heavy  burden  on  my  shoulders, 
the  guarding  of  a  human  being  from  the  perdition  of  strong  liquors. 
My  poor  little  Helen  has  been  gradually  getting  more  and  more  into 
the  habit  of  tippling,  until,  some  fortnight  ago,  she  rushed  down 
into  a  fit  of  the  most  decided  drunkenness  that  I  ever  happened  to 
witness.  Figure  the  head  of  the  mystic  school,  and  a  delicate  fe- 
male like  myself,  up  till  after  three  in  the  morning,  trying  to  get 
the  maddened  creature  to  bed;  not  daring  to  leave  her  at  large  for 
fear  she  should  set  fire  to  the  house  or  cut  her  own  throat.  Finally 
we  got  lier  bolted  into  the  back  kitchen,  in  a  corner  of  which  she 
had  established  herself  all  coiled  up  and  fufTing  like  a  young  tiger 
about  to  spring,  or  like  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor  (if  you  ever 
heard  of  that  profane  book).     Next  day  she  looked  black  with 


73  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

shame  and  despair;  aud  the  next  following,  overcome  by  her  tears 
and  promises  aud  self-upbraidings,  I  forgave  her  again,  very  much 
to  my  own  surprise.  About  half  an  hour  after  this  forgiveness 
had  been  accorded,  I  called  her  to  make  me  some  batter;  it  was 
long  of  comiug,  and  I  rang  the  bell;  no  answer.  I  went  down  to 
the  kitchen,  to  see  the  meaning  of  all  this  delay,  and  the  meaning 
was  very  clear,  my  penitent  was  lying  on  the  floor,  dead-drunk, 
spread  out  like  the  three  legs  of  Man,'  with  a  chair  upset  beside 
her,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  perfect  chaos  of  dirty  dishes  and  frag- 
ments of  broken  crockery ;  the  whole  scene  was  a  lively  epitome  of 
a  place  that  shall  be  nameless.  And  this  happened  at  ten  in  the 
morning!  All  that  day  she  remained  lying  on  the  floor  insensible, 
or  occasionally  sitting  up  like  a  little  bundle  of  dirt,  executing  a 
sort  of  whinner;  we  could  not  imagine  how  she  came  to  be  so  long 
in  sobering;  but  it  turned  out  she  had  a  whole  bottle  of  whisky 
hidden  within  reach,  to  which  she  crawled  till  it  was  finished 
throughout  the  day. 

After  this,  of  course,  I  was  determined  that  she  should  leave. 
My  friends  here  set  to  work  with  all  zeal  to  find  me  a  servant;  and 
a  very  promising  young  woman  came  to  stay  with  me  till  a  perma- 
nent character  should  turn  up.  This  last  scene  '  transpired  '  on  the 
Wednesday;  on  the  Monday  she  was  to  sail  for  Kirkcaldy.  All 
the  intervening  days,  I  held  out  against  her  pale  face,  her  tears, 
her  despair;  but  I  suffered  tei'ribly,  for  I  am  really  much  attached 
to  the  poor  wretch,  who  has  no  fault  under  heaven  but  this  one. 
On  the  Sunday  night  I  called  her  up  to  pay  her  her  wages,  and  to 
inquire  into  her  future  prospects.  Her  future  prospects!  it  was 
enough  to  break  anybody's  heart  to  hear  how  she  talked  of  them. 
It  was  all  over  for  her  on  this  earth,  plainly,  if  I  drove  her  away 
from  me  who  alone  have  any  influence  with  her.  Beside  me,  she 
would  struggle;  away  from  me,  she  saw  no  possibility  of  resisting 
what  she  had  come  to  regard  as  her  fate.  You  may  guess  the  se- 
quel :  I  forgave  her  a  third  time,  and  a  last  time.  I  could  not  deny 
her  this  one  more  chance.  The  creature  is  so  good  otherwise. 
Since  then  she  has  abstained  from  drink,  I  believe  in  every  shape, 
finding  abstinence,  like  old  Samuel  Johnson,  easier  than  temper- 
ance; but  how  long  she  may  be  strong  enough  to  persevere  in  this 
rigid  course,  in  which  lies  her  only  hope,  God  knows.  I  am  not 
very  sanguine;  meanwhile  I  feel  as  if  I  had  adopted  a  child,  I  find 


'  See  any  Manx  halfpenny,  common  similitude  on  those  coasts. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  73 

it  necessary  to  take  such  an  incessant  charge  of  her,  bodily  and 
mentally;  and  my  own  body  and  soul  generally  keep  me  in  work 
enough,  without  any  such  additional  responsibility. 

Carlyle  is  reading  voraciously,  great  folios,  preparatory  to  writ- 
ing a  new  book.  For  the  rest,  he  growls  away  much  in  the  old 
style;  but  one  gets  to  feel  a  certam  indifference  to  his  growling;  if 
one  did  not,  it  would  be  the  worse  for  one.  I  think  he  committed 
a  great  error  in  sending  away  his  horse;  it  distinctly  did  him  good: 
and  would  have  done  him  much  more  good  if  he  could  have 
'damned  the  expense.'  Even  in  an  economical  point  of  view,  lie 
would  have  gained  more  in  the  long  run  by  increased  ability  to 
work  than  he  spent  in  making  himself  healthier;  but  a  wilful  man 
will  have  his  way. 

My  kind  love  to  Isabella,  and  all  of  them;  I  hope  she  is  stronger 
now — it  was  all  she  seemed  to  want,  to  be  a  first-rate  wife.  I  never 
forgot  her  kindness  to  me  last  year;  though  I  do  not  write  to  her 
any  more  than  to  others. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carlylb. 

„  LETTER  27. 

To  Mrs.  Stirling,^  Cottage,  Dundee. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Jan.  8, 1841. 
My  dear  Susan, — I  always  thought  you  a  woman  of  admira- 
ble good  sense;  and  I  rejoice  to  see  that  marriage  has  not  spoiled 
you.  This  speaks  well  for  your  husband  too ;  for  I  defy  any  wo- 
man, unless  she  be  no  better  than  a  stone,  to  hinder  herself  from 
taking  something  of  the  colour  of  the  man  she  lives  beside  all  days 
of  the  year.  We  women  are  naturally  so  impressible,  so  imita- 
tive! the  more  shame  to  men  if  we  have  all  the  failings  they  charge 
us  with!  Our  very  self  will,  I  believe,  which  they  make  such  a  fuss 
about,  is,  after  all,  only  a  reflex  of  their  own !  I  find  in  your  letter 
no  less  than  three  several  proofs  of  this  admirable  good  sense;  first, 
you  love  me  the  same  as  ever — that  is  highly  sensible  in  you;  sec- 
ondly, you  improve  in  admiration  of  my  husband's  writiugs— that 
also  is  highly  sensible;  thirdly,  you  understand  that  my  silence 
means  nothing  but— that  I  am  silent,  and  that  (to  use  my  mother's 
favourite  phrase)  is  sensible  to  '  a  degree.'    Indeed,  if  my  silence  is 

>  Susan  Hunter,  now  married. 
I.-4 


74  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

indicative  of  anything  at  all,  dear  Susan,  it  indicates  more  trust  in 
your  steady  sentiments  of  kindness  towards  me  than  I  liave  in  the 
generality  of  people  who  profess  to  love  me  best.  If  I  thought  that 
you  imagined  me  forgetful,  when  I  am  only  not  making  periodical 
affirmations  of  my  remembrance  of  you,  and  that  you  were  to  cast 
me  out  of  your  remembrance  in  consequence,  I  would  write  cer- 
tainly— would  conquer  my  growing  repugnance  to  letter-writing, 
rather  than  risk  the  loss  of  your  affection;  but  I  should  not  feel  so 
grateful  to  you  as  now,  with  the  assurance  I  have,  that  I  may  give 
way  to  my  indolence,  and  keep  your  affection  nevertheless. 

In  fact,  in  my  chai'acter  of  Lion's  Wife  here,  I  have  writing 
enough  to  do,  by  constraint,  for  disgusting  even  a  Duchess  of  Or- 
leans— applications  from  young  ladies  for  autographs;  passionate 
invitations  to  dine;  announcements  of  inexpressible  longings  to 
drink  tea  with  me ; — all  that  sort  of  thing,  which,  as  a  provincial 
girl,  I  should  have  regarded  perhaps  as  high  promotion,  but  which 
at  this  time  of  day  I  regard  as  very  silly  and  tiresome  work;  frit- 
ters away  my  time  in  fractionary  writing,  against  the  grain,  and 
leaves  me  neither  sense  nor  spirit  for  writing  the  letters  which 
would  suggest  themselves  in  course  of  nature.  Dear  Susan,  I  am 
sorry  to  say  this  world  looks  always  the  more  absurd  to  me  the 
longer  I  live  in  it!  But,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  not  the  shepherd  set 
over  them;  so  let  them  go  their  way:  while  we,  who  are  a  little 
higher  than  the  sheep,  go  ours !  Now  don't  be  fancying  that  I  am 
growing  into  a  '  proud  Pharisee,'  which  were  even  a  degree  worse 
than  a  sheep!  Not  at  all  !  I  have  a  bad  nervous  system,  keeping 
me  in  a  state  of  greater  or  less  physical  suffering  all  days  of  my  life, 
and  that  is  the  most  infallible  specific  against  the  sin  of  spiritual 
pride  that  I  happen  to  know  of. 

I  am  better  this  winter,  however,  than  I  have  been  for  the  last 
four  winters.  Only  the  confinement  (I  never  get  across  the  tliresh- 
old  in  frost)  is  rather  irksome,  and  increases  my  liability  to  head- 
ache; but  it  is  a  great  improvement  to  have  no  cough  and  to  be 
able  to  keep  in  the  perpendicular. 

For  my  husband,  he  is  as  usual;  never  healthy,  never  absolutely 
ill;  protesting  against  'things  in  general'  with  the  old  emphasis; 
with  an  increased  vehemence  just  at  present,  being  in  the  agonies 
of  getting  under  way  with  another  book.  He  has  had  it  in  his  head 
for  a  good  while  to  write  a  '  Life  of  Cromwell,'  and  has  been  sit- 
ting for  months  back  in  a  mess  of  great  dingy  folios,  the  very  look 
of  which  is  like  to  give  me  locked-jaw 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  75 

I  never  see  Mrs.  Empsou;  she  lives  at  a  distance  from  me,  in  an- 
other sphere  of  things.  Her  being  liere,  however,  is  an  advantage 
to  me,  in  bringing  her  father  oftener  to  London;  and  he  does  what 
he  can  to  seem  constant.  I  sliall  always  Jove  him,  and  feel  grate- 
ful to  him ;  all  my  agreeable  recollections  of  Edinburgh  I  owe  to 
him  directly  or  indirectly;  the  delightful  evenings  at  'Mr.  John's,' 
and  so  much  else. 

By  the  way,  Susan,  I  can  never  understand  what  you  mean  by 
talking  of  gratitude  to  me.  The  gratitude,  it  seems  to  me,  should 
be  all  on  my  side.  But  when  people  love  one  another,  there  is  no 
need  of  debating  such  points. 

I  see  Mr.  C once  a  week  or  so ;  he  did  seem  to  get  a  great 

good  of  me  (perhaps  I  should  say  of  us;  but  it  is  more  sincere  as  I 
have  written  it)  for  a  year  or  two;  but  latterly  I  think  he  has  got 
some  new  light,  or  darkness,  or  I  know  not  what,  which  makes  him 
seek  my  company  more  from  habit  than  from  any  pleasure  he  finds 
in  it — 'the  waur'^  fov  himsel',' ^— as  they  say  in  Annaudale.  In 
London,  above  all  places  on  earth,  '  il  n'y  a  point  d'homme  neces- 
saire  ;  '  if  one  gives  over  liking  you,  another  begins — that  is  to  say 
if  you  be  likeable,  which  I  may,  without  outrage  to  modesty  and 
probability,  infer  that  I  am,  since  so  many  have  liked  me,  first  and 
last.  There  is  you,  away  at  Dundee,  have  gone  on  liking  me  with- 
out the  slightest  encouragement,  for  so  many  mortal  years  now! 
And  even  'Mr.  John,'^  could  not  help  liking  me,  though  he  met 
me  with  prepossession  that  '  I  had  been  a  dreadful  flirt;'  so  at  least 
he  told  his  brother,  I  remember,  who  in  right  brotherly  fashion  re- 
ported it  to  me  the  first  opportunity.  H  I  had  only  been  still  un- 
married, and  had  not  been  obliged  to  look  sharper  to  my  repu- 
tation, I  would  have  made  your  quiet  Mr.  John  pay  for  that 
speech ! 

What  a  likeable  man,  by  the  way,  your  brother  in  Edinburgh  is;* 
so  intelligent  and  so  unpretentious — a  combination  not  often  to  be 
found  in  Edinburgh;  so  quietly  clever  and  quietly  kind.  I  love 
quiet  things;  and  quiet  good  things  will  carry  me  to  enthusiasm; 
though,  for  the  rest,  my  quality  of  enthusiasm  is  pretty  well  got 
under. 


1  Waw;  worse.  *  Sel\  self.  *  Jeffrey. 

*  John  Hunter,  a  worthy  and  prosperous  law  ofFicial  In  Edinburgh,  residence 
Craiperook  (Jeffrey's  fine  villa),  fell  weak  of  nerves  and  died  several  years 
ago  (i^ote  of  1873). 


76  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

God  bless  you,  dear.  Kind  regards  to  your  husband  and  sister. 
Carlyle  joins  me  in  all  good  wishes. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  Carlylb. 

LETTER  38. 

This  of  the  '  bit  of  lace '  I  can  throw  no  light  on.  Some  kindly 
gift  of  Sterling's,  thrust  in  by  an  unexpected  crevice  (in  which  he 
had  great  expertness  and  still  greater  alacrity)?  The  black  colour 
too  suggestive  in  the  place  it  went  to? — T.  C. 

To  the  Bev.  John  Sterling,  Penzance. 

Chelsea:  April  29, 1841. 

My  dear  John, — I  do  not  know  whether  for  you,  as  for  old  Bur- 
ton, 'a  woman  in  tears  be  as  indifferent  a  spectacle  as  a  goose  going 
barefoot ! '  If  so,  I  make  you  my  compliments,  and  you  need  not 
read  any  further.  But  if  you  have  still  enough  of  human  feeling 
(or,  as  my  husband  would  call  it,  '"Minerva  Press"  tendency ') 
about  you,  to  feel  yourself  commoved  by  such  phenomena,  it  may 
interest  you  to  know  that,  on  opening  your  letter  the  other  day,  and 
belioldiug  the  little  '  feminine  contrivance '  inside,  I  suddenly  and 
unaccountably  fell  a-crying,  as  if  I  had  gained  a  loss.  I  do  not 
know  what  of  tender  and  sad  and  '  unspeakable  '  there  lay  for  my 
imagination  in  that  lace  article,  folded  up,  unskilfully  enough,  by 
man's  fingers — your  fingers;  and  wrapt  round  with  kind  written 
words.  But  so  it  was,  I  wept;  and,  if  this  was  not  receiving  your 
remembrance  in  the  properest  way,  I  beg  of  you  to  read  me  no  lec- 
ture on  the  subject;  for  your  lectures  are  hateful  to  me  beyond  ex- 
pression, and  their  only  practical  result  is  to  strengthen  me  in  my 
own  course. 

My  husband  is  not  returned  yet,  is  now  at  his  mother's  in 
Scotland.'  He  will  come,  I  suppose,  the  beginning  of  next  week. 
These  three  weeks  of  solitude  have  passed  very  strangely  with  me. 
I  have  been  worn  out  by  Avhat  the  cockneys  call '  mental  worry.' 
His  jury-trials,  his  influenza,  &c.,  all  things  had  been  against  me. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  could  sympathize  with  Byron's 
Giaour  ;  and,  so  soon  as  I  had  the  house  all  to  myself,  I  flung  my- 
self on  the  sofa,  with  the  feeling, 

I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest. 
I  want  no  Paradise— but  rest! 

>  To  Milne's,  at  Fryston,  in  1841,  afterwards  to  Scotland. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  77 

And  accordingly  the  scope  of  my  being  ever  since  has  been  to  ap- 
proximate, ks  nearly  as  possible,  to  nonentity.  And  I  flatter  my- 
self that  my  efforts  have  been  tolerably  successful.  Day  after  day 
lias  found  me  stretched  out  on  my  sofa  witli  a  circulating  library 
book  in  my  hand,  which  I  have  read,  if  at  all,  in  Barley's  fashion 
— '  one  eye  shut,  and  the  other  not  open.'  Evening  after  evening, 
I  have  dreamt  away  in  looking  into  the  fire,  and  wondering  to  see 
myself  here,  in  this  great  big  absurdity  of  a  world !  In  short  my 
existence  since  I  was  left  alone  has  been  an  apathy,  tempered  by 
emanations  of  the  'Minerva  Press.'  Promising!  "Well,  I  shall 
have  to  return  to  ray  post  again  presently.  One  has  to  die  at  one's 
post,  has  one  not?  The  wonderful  thing  for  me  is  always  the  pro- 
digiously long  while  one  takes  to  die.     But 

That  is  the  mystery  of  this  -wonderful  history 
And  you  wish  that  you  could  tell ! 

There  is  a  copy  of  '  Emerson's  Essays '  come  for  you  here,     I  wish 
you  good  of  them.     God  bless  you! 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  29. 

This  letter,  which  I  did  not  know  of  before,  must  have  produced 
the  '  Foreign  Quarterlj'-  Review  '  article,  '  Characteristics  of  Ger- 
man Genius,'  which  occupies  pp.  382-423  in  vol.  i.  of  Hare's  Book. 
A  letter  which  tells  its  own  story;  solelj^  in  regard  to  '  Forster '  it 
should  be  known  that  he  was  yet  but  a  new  untried  acquaintance, 
and  that  our  tone  towards  or  concerning  him,  both  as  'critic'  and 
as  ever-obliging  friend,  greatly  improved  itself,  on  the  ample  trial 
there  was. 

That  of  '  worst  critic  in  England  but  one '  was  John  Mill's  laugh- 
ing deliverance,  one  evening,  as  I  still  remember,  imitated  from 
Chamfort's  Dites  V avant-dernier  car  il  y  a  pretse. — T.  C. 

To  John  Sterling,  Esq.,  Falmouth. 

Chelsea:  Jan.  19, 1243. 
My  dear  Friend, — I  find  myself  engaged  to  write  you  a  sort  of 
business  letter,  a  thing  which  lies,  one  would  say,  rather  out  of  my 
sphere.  But  as  I  have  not  troubled  you  with  many  letters  of  late, 
you  need  not  quarrel  with  the  present,  though  on  a  subject  as  un- 
congenial to  my  tastes  and  habits  as  it  can  possibly  be  to  yours, 
Mr.  '  Hurdy-Gurdy.' 


78  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

There  is  alive  at  present  in  God's  universe,  and  likely  to  live, 
a  man,  Forster  by  name,  a  barrister,  without  practice,  residing  at 
number  fifty-eight  Lincoln's-Inn  Fields,  not  unknown  to  fame  as 
'  the  second  worst  critic  of  the  age,'  who  has  gained  himself  a  tol- 
erable footing  in  our  house  and  hearts,  by,  I  cannot  precisely  say, 
what  merits.  Latterly,  Carlyle  has  not  thought  him  '  so  very  bad 
a  critic;'  for  he  finds  him  here  and  there  taking  up  a  notion  of  his 
own,  'as  if  he  understood  it.'  For  my  part,  I  have  always  thought 
rather  well  of  his  judgment;  for,  from  the  first,  he  has  displayed  a 
most  remarkable  clear-sightedness,  with  respect  to  myself;  think- 
ing me  little  short  of  being  as  great  a  genius  as  my  husband.  And 
you,  by  you  also  his  character  as  a  critic  has  deserved  to  be  redeemed 
from  contempt;  for  he  it  was  who  wrote  the  article  in  the  '  Exam- 
iner '  in  praise  of  'The  Election.''  "Well!  all  this  preamble  was 
not  essential  to  the  understanding  of  what  is  to  follow;  but  at  least 
it  will  not  help  to  darken  it,  which  is  as  much  as  could  be  expected 
of  a  female  writer. 

This  man,  then,  has  been  taking  counsel  with  me — me  of  all 
people  that  could  have  boen  pitched  upon — how  to  give  new  life  to 
a  dying  Review,  'The  Foreign,' namely.*  It  has  passed  into  the 
hands  of  new  publishers,  Chapman  and  Hall,  active  and  moneyed 
men,  who  are  intent  on  raising  a  corps  of  new  worthy  contributors, 
who  are  somehow  (I  do  not  understand  that  part  of  it)  to  kill  and 
devour  the  old  editor,  a  Dr.  Worthington,  who  has  been  for  a  long 
time  'sitting  on  it  as  an  incubus.'  What  they  are  to  do  next,  that 
they  will  arrange,  I  suppose,  among  themselves.  Meanwhile,  of 
course,  they  are  to  be  handsomely  paid  for  their  pains. 

Now,  in  casting  our  eyes  about  for  men  of  genius,  fit  to  infuse 
new  life  into  dead  matter,  there  naturally  slid  over  my  lips  your 
name,  '  John  Sterling,  if  the  "  Review"  could  be  helped  by  a  fifty- 
page  article  in  rhyme! '  '  Why  not  in  prose? '  said  Forster.  '  Ah! 
that  is  another  question ;  to  persuade  him  to  write  prose  would  not 
be  so  easy.'  '  At  all  events,'  said  Forster,  with  a  burst  of  enthusi- 
asm, '  he  can,  and  shall,  and  must  be  applied  to.'  And,  accord- 
ingly, he  took  your  address  for  that  purpose.  Having  consulted 
with  the  publishers,  for  whom  he  is  acting  gratuitously  as  Prime 
Minister,  for  the  mere  love  of  humanity  and  his  own  inward  glory, 
he  finds  that  it  were  the  most  promising  way  of  setting  about  the 
thing,  to  apply  to  you  through  some  personal  friend,  and  he  does 


Sterling's  poem,  so  named.  "  Foreign  Quarterly,  that  is. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  79 

me  the  honour  of  taking  me  for  such,  in  which  I  hope  he  is  not 
mistaken. 

To-day  I  have  a  letter  from  him,  from  which  I  extract  the  most 
important  paragraph  (most  important  for  the  business  in  hand  that 
is,  for  it  contains  an  invitation  to  dinner,  with  bright  schemes  for 
going  to  the  play):— '  Will  you  propose  the  article  on  Dante  to 
Mazzini,  and  I  want  you  to  write  and  ask  John  Sterling  (indication 
of  celebrity)  to  write  an  article  for  the  next  "  Foreign  Quarterly," 
placing  no  restraint  on  his  opinions  in  anyway.  If  he  will  but  con- 
sent to  do  anything,  he  may  be  as  radical  as  he  was  in  his  last  con- 
tribution to  Conservatism ;  you  have,  if  your  kindness  will  take  it, 
full  authority  from  me.  This  Dr.  Worthiugton,  it  seems,  is  to  be 
got  rid  of,  and  as  speedily  as  possible.  If  these  two  articles  are 
supplied,  it  is  supposed  that  they  will  go  far  towards  knocking  him 
on  tlie  head— a  matter  of  much  desirability.  That  done,  Carlyle 
must  help  these  active  and  excellent  publishers  to  a  good  man. 

'  Thackeray  proposes  '  (remember  all  this  is  strictly  private,  you 
who  accuse  me  of  blabbing)  '  offering  to  keep  a  hot  kitchen  (the 
grand  editorial  requisite)  on  a  thousand  a  year.  To  that  there  are 
one  or  two  objections.  But  he  is  going  to  write  an  article  on 
France  and  Louis  Philippe,  which,  if  he  chooses  to  take  pains,  none 
could  do  better,  &c.,  &c. 

So  there  you  have  my  story.  Can  you  do  anything  with  it? 
Even  if  it  were  only  for  my  private  consolation,  I  should  like  to  see 
some  prose  from  you  once  more  in  this  world.  Think  and  answer. 
There  is  written  on  the  margin  of  the  letter  I  have  quoted,  '  The 
articles  as  soon  as  possible!'  To  which  I  answered,  'If  John 
Sterling  does  the  tiling  at  all,  to  be  sure  he  will  do  it  fast.'  Carlyle 
bids  me  say  that  he  is  purposing  to  write  to  you  in  two  days. 

Remember  me  in  all  kindness  to  your  wife,  and  believe  me, 
Ever  affectionately  yours  '  til  deth,' 

Jane  Carlyle. 

I  have  your  little  Florentine  Villa  framed  and  hung  up,  and  I 
look  at  it  very  often  for  its  own  beauty  and  your  sake.' 


It  is  still  here,  in  my  dressing-closet  (April,  1869). 


80  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


LETTER  30. 

The  enclosed  notes,  I  suppose,  are  from  Forster.  Mrs.  Taylor, 
who  used  to  be  well  known  to  us,  became  afterwards  John  Mill's 
wife.— T.  C. 

To  John  Sterling,  Esq.,  Falmouth. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  Jan.-Feb.  1842. 

My  Dear  Friend, — The  inclosed  notes,  one  to  yourself  and 
another  to  myself,  will  settle,  I  hope,  the  question  of  the  article  in 
a  satisfactory  manner,  without  my  playing  at  editors  any  further, 
or  even  dawning  further  on  your  astonished  sense  as  the  Armida  of 
the  '  Foreign  Quarterly '  (Cavaignac  used  to  call  Mrs.  Taylor  '  the 
Armida  of  the  ' '  London  and  "Westminster. "  ')  I  was  clearlj'^  born  for 
the  ornamental  rather  than  the  useful,  and  I  have  no  faith  in  any- 
thing being  done  by  going  into  the  teeth  of  one's  nature. 

You  ask  me  how  I  like  your  last  sendings?  In  answer  I  must 
begin  a  good  way  off.  When  you  took  it  into  your  head  to  make  a 
quarrel  with  me  about  'The  Election,' '  actually  to  complain  of  me 
to  my  husband!  (complaining  of  me  to  myself  would  not  have  been 
lialf  so  provoking);  when  you  thus  exposed  me  to  you  knew  not 
what  matrimonial  thunders,  which  however  did  not  on  that  occasion 
so  much  as  begin  to  rumble,  my  husband  knowing  me  to  be  inno- 
cent in  the  transaction  as  a  sucking  dove;  I  was  angry,  naturally. 
Ettu.  brute!  Had  I  loved  you  little,  I  should  not  have  minded; 
but  loving  you  much,  I  regarded  myself  as  afcmme  incomprise,  and, 
what  was  still  worse,  maltreated.  And  so,  there  and  then,  '  I  reg- 
istered '  (like  O'Connell)  'a  vow  in  heaven,'  never  to  meddle  or 
make  with  manuscript  of  yours  any  more,  unless  at  your  own  par- 
ticular bidding.  Accordingly,  these  manuscripts,  sent  to  Carlyle, 
I  have  not  had  once  in  my  hands.  The  best  passages  that  he  found 
in  them  he  read  aloud  to  me;  that  was  his  pleasure,  and  so  I  felt 
myself  at  liberty  to  hear  and  admire.  But  from  hearing  only  the 
best  passages,  one  can  form  no  true  judgment  as  to  the  whole,  so  I 
am  not  prepared  to  offer  any.  Now  that  you  have  asked  me 
my  opinion,  I  should  have  fallen  with  all  my  heart  to  reading 
'  Strafford,'  which  was  st'll  here;  but  Carlyle,  I  knew,  did  not  like 
it  as  a  whole,  whereas  I  liked  extremely  tho.se  passages  he  had  read 

*  Sterling's  poem,  some  secret  about  which  Sterling  supposed  Mrs.  Carlyle 
to  have  revealed. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  81 

to  me,  and  I  liked  better  to  part  with  it  in  the  admiriug  mood  than 
the  disparaging  one;  and  who  could  say,  if  I  read  it  all,  but  I 
should  turn  to  his  way  of  thinking  about  it?  So  there  you  have 
my  confession !  Only  this  I  need  to  tell  you — I  would  not  give 
your  last  letter  to  C.  for  the  best  drama  of  Shakespeare!  and  I  cai'c 
little  what  comes  of  John  Sterling  the  poet,  so  long  as  John  Ster- 
ling the  man  is  all  that  my  heart  wishes  him  to  be. 
God  bless  you,  and  remember  me  always  as 

Your  true  friend, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

Shortly  after  this  letter  there  came  ill  news  from  Templand — ill 
news,  or  which  to  her  vigilant  affection  had  an  ill  sound  in  them, 
and  which  indeed  was  soon  followed  by  a  doleful  and  irreparable 
calamity  thfre.  Something  in  a  letter  of  her  mother's,  touching 
lightly  enough  on  some  disorder  of  health  she  was  under,  and  treat- 
ing the  case  as  common  and  of  no  significance,  at  once  excited  my 
poor  Jeanuie's  suspicion,  and  I  had  to  write  to  Dr.  Russell,'  asking 
confidentially,  and  as  if  for  myself  only,  what  the  real  state  of  mat- 
ters was!  The  Doctor  answered  cautiously,  yet  on  the  whole  hope- 
fully, though  not  without  some  ambiguity,  which  was  far  enough 
from  quieting  our  suspicions  here;  and  accordingly,  almost  by  next 
letter  (February  23  or  21  I  find  it  must  have  been),  came  tidings  of 
a  'stroke,' apoplectic,  paralytic;  immediate  danger  now  over,  but 
future  dang-er  fatally  evident! 

My  poor  little  woman  instantly  got  ready.  That  same  night 
(wild,  blustering,  rainy  night,  darkness  without  us  and  within),  I 
escorted  her  to  Eustou  Square  for  the  evening  train  to  Liverpool. 
She  was  deaf,  or  all  but  deaf,  to  any  words  of  hope  I  could  urge. 
Never  shall  I  forget  her  look  as  she  sat  in  the  railway  carriage,  seat 
next  the  window,  still  close  by  me,  but  totally  silent;  her  beautiful 
eyes  full  of  sorrowful  affection,  gloom}'  pain,  and  expectation,  gaz- 
ing steadily  forward,  as  if  questioning  the  huge  darkness,  while  the 
train  rolled  away.  Alas,  at  Liverpool,  her  cousins  (Maggie  still 
remembers  it  here,  after  twenty-seven  years)  had  to  answer,  '  All 
is  over  at  Templand,  cousin,  gone,  gone!'  and  with  difficulty,  and 
with  all  tlie  ingenuity  of  love  and  pity,  got  her  conveyed  to  bed. 
February  26,  1843,  her  mother  had  departed ;  that  '  first  stroke ' 
mercifully  the  final  one.  '  Uncle  John,' etc.,  from  Liverpool,  had 
found  now  no  sister  to  welcome  him;  blithe  Templand  all  fallen 
dark  and  silent  now;  Sister  Jcanuie,  Father  Walter,  Sister  Grizzle 
also  no  more  there. 

I  followed  to  Liverpool  two  days  after  (funeral  already  not  to  be 
reached  by  me),  found  my  poor  jeannie  still  in  bed,  sick  of  body, 
still  more  of  mind  and  heart,  miserable  as  I  had  never  seen  her. 
The  same  night  I  went  by  mail-coach  (no  railway  farther  for  me) 
to  Carlisle,  thence  through  Annan,  &c.,  and  was  at  Templand  next 

I  Of  Thornhill,  near  Templand. 
4* 


82  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

morning  for  a  late  breakfast.  Journey  in  all  parts  of  it  still 
strangely  memorable  to  me.  Weather  hard,  hoar-frosty,  windy; 
■wrapt  in  an  old  dressing-gown  with  mackintosh  buttoned  round  it, 
I  effectually  kept  out  the  cold,  and  had  a  strange  night  of  it,  on  the 
solitary  coach-roof,  under  the  waste-blowing  skies,  through  the 
mountains,  to  Carlisle.  It  must  have  been  Saturday,  I  now  find, 
Carlisle  market-day.  Other  side  of  that  city  we  met  groups  of  mar- 
ket-people ;  at  length  groups  of  Scotch  farmers  or  dealers  solidlj' 
jogging  thither,  in  some  of  which  I  recognized  old  school-fellows! 
A  certain  'Jock  Beattie,'  perhaps  twelve  years  my  senior,  a  big 
good-humoured  fellow  finishing  his  arithmetics,  &c.,who  used  to  be 
rather  good  to  me,  him  I  distinctly  noticed  after  five-and-twenty 
years,  grown  to  a  grizzled,  blue-visaged  sturdy  giant,  sunk  in  com- 
forters and  woollen  wrappages,  plod-plodding  there  at  a  stout  pace, 
and  still  good-humouredly,  to  Carlisle  market  (as  a  big  bacon-dealer, 
&c.,  it  afterwards  appeared),  and  had  various  thoughts  about  liim, 
far  as  he  was  from  thought  of  me!  Jock's  father,  a  prosperous 
enough  country-carpenter,  near  by  the  kirk  and  school  of  Hoddam, 
was  thrice-great  as  a  ruling-elder  (indeed,  a  very  long-headed, 
strictly  orthodox  man),  well  known  to  my  father,  though  I  think 
silently  not  so  well  approved  of  in  all  points.  '  WuU  Beattie, '  was 
my  father's  name  for  him.  Jock's  eldest  brother,  '  Sandy  Beattie,' 
a  Probationer  (Licentiate  of  the  Burgher  Church),  stepping  into  our 
school  one  day,  my  age  then  between  seven  and  eight,  had  reported 
to  my  father  that  I  must  go  into  Latin,  that  I  was  wasting  my  time 
otherwise,  which  brought  me  a  Ruddiman's  'Rudiments,'  some- 
thing of  an  event  in  the  distance  of  the  past.  At  Annan,  in  the 
rimy-hazy  morning,  I  sat  gazing  on  the  old  well-known  houses,  on 
the  simmering  populations  now  all  new  to  me — very  strange,  these 
old  unaltered  stone-and-mortar  edifices,  with  their  inmates  changed 
and  gone! — meanwhile  there  stalked  past,  in  some  kind  of  rusty  gar- 
niture against  the  cold,  a  dull,  gloomy,  hulk  of  a  figure,  whom  I 
clearly  recognized  for  'Dr.  Waugh,''  luckless  big  goose  (with 
something  better  in  him  too,  which  all  went  to  failure  and  futility), 
who  is  to  me  so  tragically  memorable!  Him  I  saw  in  this  unseen 
manner:  him  and  no  other  known  to  me  there — him  also  for  the 
last  time.  Six  miles  farther,  I  passed  my  sister  Mary  Austin's 
farmstead  in  Cummertrees.  Poor  kind  Mary!  little  did  she  dream 
of  me  so  near!  At  Dumfries,  my  sister  Jean,  who  had  got  some 
inkling,  was  in  waiting  where  the  coach  stopped;  she  half  by 
force  hurried  me  over  to  her  house,  which  was  near,  gave  me  a  hot 
cup  of  tea,  &c. ,  and  had  me  back  again  in  plenty  of  time.  Soon 
after  10  a.m.  I  was  silently  set  down  by  the  wayside,  beckoned  a 
hedger  working  not  far  off  to  carry  my  portmanteau  the  bit  of  fur- 
long neces.sary,  and,  wilii  thoughts  enough  articulate  and  inarticu- 
late, entered  the  old  Templand  now  become  so  new  and  ghastly. 

For  two  months  and  more  I  had  to  continue  there,  sad  but  not 
unhappy.  Good  John  Welsh,  with  his  eldest  daughter  Helen  and 
a  lady  cousin  of  his,  good  active  people,  were  there  to  welcome  me, 
and  had  the  house  all  in  order.     In  about  a  week  these  all  went, 

1  See  Reminiscences,  p.  49,    Harper's  Edition. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  83 

but  left  an  excellent  old  servant;  and  for  the  rest  of  the' time  I 
was  as  if  in  perfect  solitude — my  converse  with  the  mute  universe 
mainly.  Much  there  was  to  settle,  and  I  had  to  speak  and  negotia- 
ate  with  various  people,  Duke's  farm-agents;  but  that  was  ouly  at 
intervals  and  for  brief  times;  and,  indeed,  all  that  could  have 
been  finished  soon,  had  the  agent  people  (factor,  subf actors,  &c. , 
&c.)  been  definite  and  alert  with  me,  which  they  by  no  means 
were.  Nay,  ere  long,  I  myself  grew  secretly  to  like  the  entire  se- 
clusion ,  the  dumb  company  of  earth  and  sky,  and  did  not  push  as 
I  might  have  done.  Once  or  twice  I  drove  across  the  hills  to  An 
nandale;  had  one  of  my  brothers,  Jamie  or  Alick,  on  this  or  the 
other  'errand,'  over  to  me  for  a  day;  had  my  dear  old  mother  for 
perhaps  a  week  at  one  time;  I  had  also  friendly  calls  to  make 
(resolutely  refusing  all  dinners) ;  but  on  the  whole  felt  that  silence 
was  the  wholesome,  strengthening,  and  welcome  element.  I  walked 
a  great  deal,  my  thoughts  sad  and  solemn,  seldom  or  never  meanly 
painful— sometimes  in  the  great  joyless  stoicism  (great  as  life  itself), 
sometimes  of  victorious  or  high.  The  figure  of  the  actual  terres- 
trial '  spring '  (the  first  I  had  seen  for  years,  the  last  I  ever  saw) 
was  beautiful,  symbolic  to  me,full  of  wild  grandeur  and  meanings. 
By  day,  now  bright  sunshine  and  a  tinge  of  hopeful  green,  then 
suddenly  the  storm-cloud  seen  gathering  itself  far  up  in  the  centre 
of  the  hills,  and  anon  rushing  down  in  mad  fury,  by  its  several 
valleys  (Nith,  &c.,  &c.,  which  I  could  count);  a  canopy  of  circular 
storm,  split  into  spokes,  and  whitening  everything  with  snow!  I 
did  not  read  much— nothing  that  I  now  recollect:  'Cromwell' 
books,  which  were  then  my  serious  reading,  were,  of  course,  all 
in  Chelsea.  By  some  accident,  now  forgotten,  I  had  slid  into 
something  of  correspondence  with  Lockhart  more  than  I  ever 
had  before  or  after;  three  or  four  altogether  friendly,  serious,  and 
pleasant  notes  from  him  I  remember  there,  which  I  doubt  are  not 
now  in  existence.  A  hard,  proud,  but  thoroughly  honest,  singularly 
intelligent,  and  also  affectionate  man,  whom  in  the  distance  I  es- 
teemed more  than  perhaps  he  ever  knew.  Seldom  did  I  speak  to 
him;  but  hardly  ever  Avithout  learning  and  gaining  something. 
From  '  Satan  Montgomery,'  too,  I  was  surprised  by  a  letter  or  two, 
invoking  me  (absurdly  enough)  to  '  review '  some  new  book  of  his 
(riiymed  rigmarole  on  'Luther,'  I  believe),  'Oh,  review  it,  you 
who  can;  you  who,'  &c. ,  &c. !  Windy  soul,  flung  aloft  by  popular 
delusion,  he  soon  after  died  with  all  his  vanities  and  glories! 

My  plan  of  business  had  at  first  been,  '  Let  us  keep  this  house 
and  garden  as  they  are,  and  sublet  the  land;  no  prettier  place  ol 
refuge  for  us  could  be  in  the  world! '  But  my  poor  darling  shrank 
utterly  from  that,  could  not  hear  of  it  in  her  broken  heart;  which, 
alas,  was  natural  too;  so  I  had  to  get  the  lease  valued,  cancelled; 
sell  off  everything,  annihilate  all  vestige  of  our  past  time  there,  a 
thing  I  now  again  almost  regret;  and  certainly,  for  the  moment, 
it  was  in  itself  a  very  sad  operation.  The  day  of  the  household 
sale,  which  was  horrible  to  me,  I  fled  away  to  Crawford  Church- 
yard ('20  miles  off,  through  the  pass  of  Dalveen,  &c.),  leaving  my 
brothers  in  charge  of  everything;  spent  tiie  day  there  by  my 
mother-in-law's  grave  and  in  driving  thither  and  back;  the  day 


84  LETTERS  AND  MEMOEIALS  OF 

was  of  bright  weather,  the  road  silent  and  solitary.  I  was  not 
very  miserable;  it  was  rather  like  a  day  of  religious  worship,  till  in 
the  evening,  within  short  way  of  Templand  again,  I  met  people 
carrying  furniture  (Oh  heaven;  found  Templand  a  ruin,  as  if  sown 
with  salt;  and  had,  from  various  causes,  an  altogether  sorry  night 
in  Thoruhill.  Tedious  pedantic  'factor' still  lingering  and*  loiter- 
ing, I  had  still  to  wait  at  Scotsbrig,  with  occasional  rides  across 
to  him,  and  messages  and  urgencies,  before  he  would  conclude; 
'  paltry  little  strutting  creature,'  thought  I  sometimes  (wrongfully, 
1  have  been  told;  at  any  rate,  the  poor  little  soul  is  now  dead, 
requiescat,  requiescat !).  It  was  not  till  the  beginning  of  May  that 
I  got  actually  back  to  Chelsea,  where  my  poor  sorrow-stricken  dar- 
ling with  Jeannie,  her  Liverpool  cousin,  had  been  all  this  while; 
and  of  course,  though  making  little  noise  about  it,  was  longing  to 
have  me  back. 

Her  letters  during  those  two  months  of  absence  seem  to  be  all 
lost.     I  remember  their  tone  of  mournful  tenderness;  the  business 
part,  no  doubt,  related  to  the  bits  of  memorials  and  household  relics 
I  was  to  bring  with   nie,  which,  accordingly,  were  all  carefully 
]>acked  and  conve5'^ed,  and  remain  here  in  pious  preservation  to  this 
(lay:  a  poor  pra}-ing  child,  some  helpless  enough  rustic  carving  in 
funeral  jet,  commemorative  of  'John  Welsh  ';  these  and  other  such 
things,  which  had  pleased  her  mother,  though  in  secret  not  7icr,  she 
now  accepted  with  repentant  fondness,  and  kept  as  precious.     She 
had  great  care  about  matters  of  that  kind;  had  a  real,  though  un- 
believing, notion  about  omens,  luck,   'first  foot'  on   New  Year's 
morning,  &c. ;  in  fact,  with  the  clearest  and  steadiest  discerning 
head,  a  tremulously  loving  heart!     I  found  her  looking  pale,  thin, 
weak;  she  did  not  complain  of  health,  but  was  evidently  suffering 
that  way  too:  what  she  did  feel  was  of  the  mind,  of  the  heart  sunk 
in  heaviness;  and  of  this  also  she  said  little,  even  to  me  not  much. 
Words  could  not  avail;  a  mother  and  mother's  love  were  gone,  ir- 
revocable ;  the  sunny  fields  of  the  past  had  all  become  sunless,  fate- 
ful, sorrowful,  and  would  smile  no  more!      A  mother  dead;  it  is 
an  epoch  for  us  all;  and  to  each  one  of  us  it  comes  with  a  pungency 
as  if  pecidiar,  a  look  as  of  originality  and  singularity!    Once  or 
ofteuer  she  spoke  to  me  in  emphatic  self-reproach,  in  vehement  re- 
pentance about  her  mother;  though  seldom  had  any  daughter  in- 
trinsically less  ground  for  such  a  feeling.     But,  alas,  we  all  have 
ground  for  it!  could  we  but  think  of  it  sooner;  inexpressible  the 
sadness  to  think  of  it  too  late.     That  little  fact  of  the  '  two  candles' 
mentioned  above,  ^  reserved  in  sad  penitence  to  be  her  own  death- 
lights  after  seven-and-twenty  years — what  a  voice  is  in  that,  piercing 
to  one's  very  soul!    All  her  mother's  'poor  people,'  poor  old  halt- 
crazy  'Mary  Mills,'  and  several  others  (for  Mrs.  Welsh  was  ever 
beneficent  and  soft  of  heart),  she  took  the  strictest  inheritance  of, 
and  punctually  transmitted  from  her  own  small  pin-money  their 
respective  doles  at  the  due  day,  till   the  last  of  them  died  and 
needed  no  gift  more.     I  well  remember,  now  with  emotion  enough, 
the  small  bank  cheques  I  used  to  write  for  her  on  those  occasions, 

»  Reminiscences,  p.  316.    Harper's  Edition. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE,  85 

always  accurately  paid  me  on  the  spot,  from  her  own  small,  small 
fund  of  pin-money  (I  do  believe,  the  smallest  any  actual  London 
lady,  and  she  was  ever  emphatically  such,  then  had).  How  beautiful 
is  noble  poverty!  richer,  perhaps,  than  the  noblest  wealth!  For 
the  rest,  I  too  have  my  self-reproaches;  my  sympathy  for  her, 
though  sincere  and  honest,  was  not  always  perfect;  no,  not  as  hers 
for  me  in  the  like  case  had  been,  Once,  and  once  only,  she  even  said 
to  me  (I  forget  altogether  for  what)  some  thrice-sad  words,  'It  is 
the  first  time  you  show  impatience  with  my  grief,  dear' — words 
which  pain  my  heart  at  this  moment.  Ah  me!  'too  late';  I  also 
too  late ! 

The  summer  could  not  but  pass  heavily  in  this  manner;  but  it 
did  grow  quieter  and  quieter.  Little  cousin  Jeaunie  was  very 
affectionate  and  good ;  my  own  return  had  brought  something  of 
light  into  the  household;  various  kind  friends  we  had,  who  came 
about  us  diligently.  Time  itself,  tlie  grand  soother  and  physician, 
was  silently  assuaging — never  falls  to  do  so,  unless  one  is  oneself 
too  near  the  finis!  Towards  autumn  Mrs.  BuUer,  who  had  at  the 
first  meeting,  years  ago,  recognized  my  Jeannie,  and  always,  I 
think,  liked  her  better  and  better,  persuaded  her  to  a  visit  of  some 
three  weeks  out  to  Troston  in  Suffolk,  where  Mrs.  Buller  herself 
and  husband  were  rusticating  with  the  Rev.  Reginald,  their  young- 
est son,  who  was  parson  there.  This  visit  took  effect,  and  even 
prospered  beyond  hope,  agreeable  in  every  essential  way;  enter- 
taining to  the  parties;  and  lasted  beyond  bargain.  It  was  the 
first  reawakening  to  the  sight  of  life  for  my  poor  heavy-laden  one; 
a  salutary  turning  aside,  vv^hat  we  call  diversion,  of  those  sad  cur- 
rents and  sad  stagnancies  of  thought  into  fruitfuller  course;  and, 
I  think,  did  her  a  great  deal  of  good.  Lucid  account  is  given  of 
it  in  the  six  following  letters  which  we  have  now  arrived  at,  which 
I  still  recollect  right  well— T.  C. 

[Before  these  letters,  I  introduce  two  of  many  written  in  the  in- 
terval by  Mrs.  Carlyle  to  other  friends  after  her  mother's  death. 
The  first  is  to  the  wife  of  the  physician  who  attended  Mrs.  Welsh 
in  her  last  illness. — J.  A.  F.] 


LETTER  31. 
To  Mrs.  Russell,  ThornMll. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea :  Tuesday,  April  1842. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Russell, — I  sit  down  to  write  to  you  at  last!  But 
how  to  put  into  written  words  what  lies  for  you  in  my  heart!  If  I 
were  beside  you,  I  feel  as  if  1  should  throw  myself  on  your  neck, 
and  cry  myself  to  rest  like  a  sick  child.  At  this  distance,  to  ask  in 
cold  writing  all  the  heart-breaking  things  I  would  know  of  you, 
and  to  say  all  the  kind  things  I  would  say  for  her  and  myself,  is 
indeed  quite  impossible  for  me.  You  will  come  and  see  me,  will 
you   not,   before  very  long?     I  can   never  go  there  again;  but 


86  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

you  will  come  to  me?  travelling  is  made  so  easy  now!  And  I 
should  feel  such  gratification  in  receiving  into  my  own  house  one 
who  was  ever  so  dearly  welcome  in  hers,  and  who,  of  all  who  loved 
her,  was,  by  one  sad  chance  and  another,  the  only  one  whose  love 
was  any  help  to  her  when  she  most  needed  our  love !  She  blessed 
you  for  the  comfort  you  gave  her,  and  you  shall  be  blessed  for  it 
here  and  hereafter.  The  dying  blessing  of  such  a  pure  fervent 
heart  as  hers  cannot  have  been  pronounced  on  you  in  vain ;  and 
take  my  blessing  also,  '  kind  sweet '  woman !  a  less  holy  one,  but 
not  less  sincerely  given! 

Will  you  wear  the  little  thing  I  inclose  in  remembrance  of 
me,  and  of  this  time?  You  will  also  receive,  through  my 
cousin  in  Liverpool,  a  little  box,  and  scarf,  of  hers,  which  I  am 
sure  you  will  like  to  have;  and  along  with  these  will  be  sent 
to  your  care  a  shawl  for  Margaret  Hiddlestone,  who  is  another  that 
I  shall  think  of  with  grateful  affection,  as  long  as  I  live,  for  the 
comfort  which  she  bestowed  on  her  during  the  last  weeks.  I 
think  Dr.  Russell  has  some  of  her  books ;  I  desired  that  he  should 
have  them.  He  has  given  me  an  inestimable  gift  in  that  letter;  for 
which  I  deeply  thank  him,  and  for  so  much  else.  Remember  me 
to  your  father.  I  sent  him  the  poor  old  Tablet  last  week ;  I  know 
he  used  to  get  it  from  her.  Will  j'ou  write  two  or  three  lines  to 
my  Aunt  Ann — you  sometimes  write  to  her,  I  believe — and  say  to 
her  that,  although  returned  to  London,  and  a  good  deal  better  in 
health,  I  am  still  incapable  of  much  exertion  of  anj'-  sort,  and  have 
not  yet  set  about  answering  my  letters?  She  sent  me  a  long  ser- 
mon, to  which  she  has,  no  doubt,  looked  for  some  reply;  it  was 
well  meant,  and  I  would  not  offend  her,  but  I  am  not  up  to  corre 
spondences  of  that  sort  just  now. 

All  good  be  with  you  all.  Think  of  me,  and  pray  for  me;  I  have 
much  need  of  more  help  than  lies  in  myself,  to  bear  up  against  the 
stroke  that  has  fallen  on  me. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  33. 

To  Miss  Margaret  Welsh, '^  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  Friday,  July  15,  1843. 
My  dear  Maggie, — It  was  a  good  thought  in  you  to  send  me  the 
little  purse,  and  I  feel  very  grateful  to  you  for  it.     This  last  birth- 

>  Daughter  of  John  Welsh,  sister  of  Helen. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  87 

day  was  very  sad  for  me,  as  you  may  easily  suppose,  very  unlike 
what  it  was  last  year,  and  all  former  years;  and  I  needed  all  the 
heartening  kind  souls  could  give  me.  But,  by  your  kindness  and 
that  of  others,  the  day  was  got  over  with  less  of  a  forsaken  feeling 
than  could  have  been  anticipated.  Only  think  of  my  husband,  too, 
having  given  me  a  little  present!  he  who  never  attends  to  such 
nonsenses  as  birthdays,  and  who  dislikes  nothing  in  the  world  so 
much  as  going  into  a  shop  to  buy  anything,  even  his  own  trowsers 
and  coats;  so  that,  to  the  consternation  of  cockney  tailors,  I  am 
obliged  to  go  about  them.  Well,  he  actually  risked  himself  in  a 
jeweller's  shop,  and  bought  me  a  very  nice  smelling-bottle! '  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  wae  his  little  gift  made  me,  as  well  as  glad;  it  was 
the  first  thing  of  the  kind  he  ever  gave  to  me  in  his  life.  In  great 
matters  he  is  always  kind  and  considerate;  but  these  little  atten- 
tions, which  we  women  attach  so  much  importance  to,  he  was 
never  in  the  habit  of  rendering  to  anyone ;  his  up-bringing,  and  the 
severe  turn  of  mind  he  has  from  nature,  had  alike  indisposed  him 
towards  them.  And  now  the  desire  to  replace  to  me  the  irre- 
placeable, makes  him  as  good  in  little  things  as  he  used  to  be  in 
great. 

Helen's  box  arrived  this  morning;  so  like  a  Terapland  box !  Alas, 
alas!  those  preserves!  I  had  thought  about  making  some  all  this 
time,  and  never  could  bring  myself  to  set  about  it.  It  was  not  only 
to  make  them,  but  to  learn  to  make  them,  for  me;  and  I  had  finally 
settled  it  with  myself  that  I  must  be  stronger  before  I  did  such  out- 
of-the-way  things.  So  that  in  every  way  Helen's  present  is  wel- 
come ;  most  of  all  welcome  for  the  kind  consideration  it  shows  for 
my  helplessness,  and  the  c[uantity  of  really  disagreeable  labour  she 
has  imposed  on  herself  for  my  sake.  Give  her  my  kindest  love, 
and  say  I  will  write  in  a  day  or  two  to  herself.  I  have  been  mean- 
ing to  write  to  her  every  day  this  week  back,  but  the  pigs  have 
always  run  through  the  good  intention. 

Jeannie  expresses  surprise  at  the  fancy  of  'sending  coffee  to 
Chelsea;'  but,  for  ray  share,  I  find  the  'fancy'  extremely  reason- 
able, considering  that  when  I  was  in  Liverpool  I  brought  coffee 
from  there  to  Chelsea,  and  a  very  good  speculation  it  turned  out. 

Thank  my  uncle  for  his  golden  kiss.  I  am  thinking  seriously 
what  to  do  with  it,  as  I  never  eat  snaps;  and  besides  would  rather 

•  Carlyle  never  forgot  her  birthday  afterwards.  Regularly,  as  July  came 
round,  I  find  traces  of  some  remembrance— some  special  letter  with  some  in- 
closed present.— J.  A.  F. 


88  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

invest  such  an  amount  of  capital  in  something  of  a  permanent  char- 
acter, that  might  remind  me  of  him  more  agi'eeably  than  by  an  in- 
digestion; but,  for  my  life,  I  cannot  fix  upon  anything  that  I  need, 
and  to  buy  something  that  I  feel  to  be  superfluous  is  so  little  in  my 
way  I  I  think  I  shall  let  it  be  in  the  purse  for  good  luck  till  winter, 
and  then  buy  something  particularly  cosy  to  put  about  my  throat. 

As  to  '  Miss  Jeannie's '  return,  I  can  only  tell  you  that  neither  I 
nor  anybody  else  hereabouts  show  any  symptoms  of  'tiring  of  her;' 
the  first  person  to  tire,  I  imagine,  will  be  herself.  Her  picture  is 
come  home  from  the  frame-maker,  and  looks  very  fine  indeed  in  its 
gilt  ornameutality.  I  think  it  perfectly  like,  and  a  beautiful  little 
picture  withal,  wherein,  however,  I  differ  from  many  persons,  who 
say  it  'is  not  flattered  enough';  as  if  a  picture  must  needs  be  flat- 
tered to  be  what  it  ought  to  be. 

We  went  down  the  water  last  night  to  take  tea  with  the  Chaplain 
of  Guy's  Hospital;  found  him  and  his  wife  in  the  country,  and  had 
to  return  tea-less,  ratlicr  belated,  and  extremely  cold;  the  conse- 
quence of  which  hetise  is,  that  to-day  I  am  hoarse,  with  a  soreish 
head  and  soreish  throat ;  so  you  will  excuse  my  horrible  writing, 
God  bless  you  all. 

Ever  your  affectionate  Cousin, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  33. 

The  Buller  family  consisted  of  three  sons:  Charles,  M.P.  &c.,  a 
man  of  distinguished  faculties  and  qualities,  who  was  now  at  length 
rising  into  recognition,  influence,  and  distinction;  and  might  have 
risen  far,  had  his  temper  of  mhid  been  more  stubbornly  earnest; 
perhaps  I  may  say,  had  his  bodily  constitution  been  more  robust! 
For  he  was  of  weak  health,  lamed  of  a  leg  in  childhood;  had  an 
airy  winged  turn  of  thought,  flowing  out  in  lambencies  of  beautiful 
spontaneous  wit  and  fanc}',  which  were  much  admired  in  society, 
and  too  much  attracted  him  thither;  so  that,  with  all  his  integrity, 
cleverness,  and  constant  veracity  of  intellect  and  of  character,  he 
did  not,  nor  ever  could,  as  a  '  reformer,'  so  much  express  his  inborn 
detestation  of  the  base  and  false  by  practically  working  to  undo  it, 
as  by  showering  witty  scorn  upon  it;  in  which,  indeed.  I  never  saw 
his  rival,  had  that  been  the  way  to  do  good  upon  it.  Poor  Charles, 
only  five  years  afterwards  he  died,  amid  universal  regret,  which  did 
not  last  long,  nor  amount  to  anything!  He  had  procured  for  his 
younger  brother  Arthur,  who  was  my  other  pupil,  some  law  appoint- 
ment in  Ceylon,  which  proved  sufficient;  and  for  his  youngest 
brother  Reginald  (who  used  to  dine  with  me  in  Edinburgh  in  the 
tutor  times,  an  airy,  pen-drawing,  skipping  clever  enough  little 
creature  then)  a  richish  country  living;  where,  as  utterly  stupid 


JANE    WELSH   CARLYLE.  89 

somnolent  'Reverend  Incumbent,'  he  placidly  vegetated  thence- 
fortli,  and  still  vegetates.  Thackeray  the  novelist  had  been  a 
college  companion  of  his  own ;  that  perhaps  is  now  his  chief  dis- 
tinction. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Buller,  senior,  who  now  lead  a  somewhat 
nomadic  life,  in  the  manner  of  ex-Indians  of  distinction,  were  su- 
perior people  both;  persons  of  sound  judgment,  of  considerable 
culture  and  experience,  of  thoroughly  polite  manners  (IVIadam  con- 
siderably in  the  Indian  style,  as  ex-'  queen  of  Calcutta,'  which  she 
was,  with  a  great  deal  of  sheet-lightning  in  her  ways).  Charles, 
senior,  was  considerably  deaf,  a  real  sorrow  to  one  so  fond  of  lis- 
tening to  people  of  sense;  for  the  rest,  like  his  wife,  a  person  of 
perfect  probit3%  politeness,  truthfulness,  and  of  a  more  solid  type 
than  she;  lie  read  (idly,  when  he  must),  rode  for  exercise,  was, 
above  all,  fond  of  chess,  in  which  game  he  rarely  found  his  supe- 
rior. Intrinsically  these  excellent  people  had  from  the  first,  and 
all  along,  been  very  good  to  me;  never  boggled  at  my  rustic  out- 
side or  melancholic  dyspeptic  ways,  but  took,  with  ardent  welcome, 
whatever  of  best  they  could  discern  within — over-estimating  all,  not 
under-estimating — especially  not  'the  benefit,'  &c.  Charles,  junior, 
was  getting  of  me.  Indeed,  talent  of  all  real  kinds  was  dear  to 
them  (to  the  lady  especially);  and  at  bottom  the  mea.^ure  of  human 
wortli  to  both.  Nobody  in  London,  accordingly,  read  sooner  what 
my  rural  Jeannie  intrinsically  was;  discerned  better  what  graces 
and  social  resources  might  lie  under  that  modest  veiling;  or  took 
more  eagerlj'  to  profiting  by  these  capabilities  whenever  possible. 
Mrs.  Buller  was,  by  maiden  name,  Kirkpatrick,  a  scion  of  the 
Closeburn  (Dumfriesshire)  people,  which,  in  its  sort,  formed  an- 
other little  tie.— T.  C. 


To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Troston,  near  St.  Edmundsbury,  Suffolk:  Friday,  Aug.  11,  1843. 
Here  I  am  then,  dearest,  established  at  Troston  Rector}*,  my 
clothes  all  in  the  drawers;  one  night  over;  and  for  the  rest,  the 
body  and  soul  of  me  'as  well  as  can  be  expected.'  The  journey 
was  less  fatiguing  than  we  had  supposed;  the  coach  got  into  Bury 
at  three  instead  of  five;  atid  Mr.  Buller  and  the  carriage  revealed 
themselves  immediately  to  my  searching  eyes.  Except  my  parasol, 
I  committed  no  further  stupidity.  At  eleven  o'clock  I  ate  a  small 
Ghent  loaf,  or  the  greater  part  of  it  (and  a  very  good  little  loaf  it 
proved  to  be),  a  small  biscuit,  and  a  bit  of  Jeannie's  barley-sugar; 
and  at  two  I  ate  the  Ghent  ....  proved  to  be  grey  rye  with 
currants  in  it.  I  had  also,  through  the  politeness  of  the  gentleman  in 
the  grey  jacket,  a  glass  of  water,  slightly  flavoured  with  onions. 
We  did  not  sit  in  coach  on  the  railway ;  they  put  us  into  a  railway 
carriage,  only  leaving  the  luggage  in  tlie  coach.     The  country, 


90  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

most  part  of  the  way,  reminded  me  of  East  Lotliiau ;  hereabouts  it 
is  richer,  aud  better  wooded.  The  harvest  was  going  on  briskly 
— this  to  show  you  that  I  did  not  sit  '  with  my  eyes  on  the  apron 
of  tlie  gig.' 

My  reception  here  was  most  cordial :  Mrs.  Buller  met  me  with 
open  arms  (literally),  aud  called  me  'dear,  dear  Mrs.  Carlyle'; 
whicli,  from  a  woman  so  little  expansive,  was  highly  flattering. 
She  looks  dreadfully  ill;  as  if  she  were  only  kept  alive  by  the  force 
of  her  own  volition;  and  is  more  out  of  spirits  than  1  ever  saw  her. 
No  wonder!  for  little  Theresa  is  gone  away,  and  they  feel  her  loss 
as  much  as  if  she  had  been  their  real  child.  Theresa's  mother  has 
fallen  ill — of  consumption,  the  doctors  say — and  is  ordered  to  the 
South  of  France,  as  the  only  means  of  prolonging  her  life  for  a 
year  or  so.  She  wished  to  have  her  child  go  with  her,  and  Mrs. 
Buller  could  not  resist  her  wishes,  under  the  circumstances;  so  the 
little  thing  was  sent  off  to  her,  attended  by  a  governess,  three  days 
ago.  The  mother  is  a  most  amiable  and  unfortunate  woman,  Mrs. 
Buller  says;  and  she  seems  to  have  been  on  the  most  intimate 
terms  with  her.     But  Mrs.  Buller  reads  George  Sand,  like  me. 

This  rectory  is  a  delightful  place  to  be  in,  in  warm  weather; 
but  in  winter,  it  must  be  the  reverse  of  comfortable;  all  the  room- 
windows  opening  as  doors  into  the  garden,  vines  hanging  over 
them,  &c.,  &c.  It  is  a  sort  of  compromise  between  a  country  par- 
sonage, and  an  aristocratic  cottage;  and  compromises  never  are 
found  to  answer,  I  think,  in  the  long  run.  It  stands  in  the  midst 
of  green  fields  and  fine  tall  trees;  with  the  church  (if  such  an  old 
dilapidated  building  can  be  called  a  church)  within  a  bowshot  of 
it.  Around  the  church  is  a  little  quiet-looking  church  yard, 
which,  with  the  sun  shining  on  it,  does  not  look  at  all  sad.  A 
foot- path  about  half-a-yard  wide,  and  overgrown  with  green,  aud 
strewn  with  fallen  apples,  cuts  across  the  bit  of  green  field  between 
the  church  and  the  rectory,  and  being  the  only  road  to  the  church, 
one  may  infer  from  it  several  things! 

I  went  into  the  church  last  night  with  Reginald,  while  Mrs. 
Buller  was  having  her  drive;  and  when  I  looked  at  him  and  it,  and 
thought  of  the  four  liundred  and  fifty  living  souls  who  were  to  be 
saved  through  such  means,  I  could  almost  have  burst  into  tears. 
Anything  so  like  the  burial-place  of  revealed  religion  j^ou  have 
never  seen,  nor  a  rector  more  fit  to  read  its  burial-service!  The 
church-bell  rings,  night  and  morning,  with  a  plaintive  clang.  I 
asked,  '  Was  it  for  prayers?  '     '  No,  it  was  to  warn  the  gleanerg 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  SI 

that  it  was  their  time  to  go  out  aud  to  come  in.'  'Monsieur,  cela 
vousfera  un,'  &c.' 

Let  no  mortal  hope  to  escape  night-noises  so  long  as  he  is  above 
ground!  Here,  one  might  have  thought  that  all  things,  except  per- 
haps the  small  birds  rejoicing,  would  have  let  one  alone,  and  the 
fact  is  that,  with  one  devilry  after  another,  I  have  had  hardly  any 
sleep,  for  all  so  dead-weary  as  I  lay  down.  Just  as  I  was  dropping 
asleep,  between  eleven  and  twelve,  the  most  infernal  serenade 
commenced,  in  comparison  of  Avhich  the  shrieking  of  Mazeppa''  is 
soothing  melody.  It  was  an  ass,  or  several  asses,  braying  as  if  the 
devil  were  iu  them,  just  under  my  open  window!  It  ceased  after 
a  few  minutes,  and  I  actually  got  to  sleep,  when  it  commenced 
again,  and  I  sprang  up  with  a  confused  notion  that  all  the  Edin- 
burgli  watchmen  were  yelling  round  the  house,  aud  so  on  all 
night!  An  explosion  of  ass-brays  every  quarter  of  an  hour!  Then, 
about  four,  commenced  never  so  many  cocks,  challenging  each 
other  all  over  the  parish,  with  a  prodigious  accompaniment  of 
rooks  cawing;  ever  and  anon  enlivened  by  the  booing  aud  squeal- 
ing of  a  child,  which  my  remembrance  of  East  Lothian  instructed 
me  was  some  vermin  of  a  creature  hired  to  keep  off  the  crows 
from  the  grain.  Of  course,  to-day  I  have  a  headache,  and  if  suc- 
ceeding nights  are  not  quieter,  or  if  I  do  not  use  to  the  noise,  my 
stay  will  not  be  very  long.  I  am  now  writing  in  my  own  room 
(which  is  very  pleasant  to  sit  in),  taking  time  by  the  forelock,  iu  case 
my  head  should  get  worse  instead  of  better,  and  then,  if  you  were 
cut  out  of  your  letter,  '  you  would  be  vaixed.'f  The  post  leaves 
Ixwortli  iu  the  evening,  but  it  is  two  miles  to  Ixworth,  aud  the 
letters  get  there  as  they  can;  Mrs.  Buller  generally  takes  her 
afternoon  drive  iu  that  direction.  Letters  come  in  the  morning, 
and  this  morning  L  found  the  French  newspaper  on  the  table  for 
me. 

I  breakfast  with  Mr.  Buller  and  Reginald  at  nine,  preferring 
that  to  having  it  brought  to  my  room  as  Mrs.  Buller  recommended. 

I  will  not  write  any  more  to-day,  but  take  care  of  my  head, 
which  needs  it.  So  you  must  give  my  love  to  Jeannie,  aud  a  kiss, 
and  bid  her  do  the  best  she  can  on  that  short  common  till  I  am 
rested.     God  bless  you,  my  dear  husband.     I  hope  you  are  rested. 


'  Grand  plaisir,  perhaps. 

*  A  wild  horse,  which  we  sometimes  hear  stamping,  &c. ,  here. 
'A  foolish,  innocent  old  Scotch  lady's  phrase,  usually  historical  or  pro- 
phetic, and  not  a  little  unimportant. 


93  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  going  to  Lady  Harriet ; '  and  I  hope  you  will  think  of  me  a 
great  deal,  and  be  as  good  to  me  when  I  return  as  you  were  when 
I  came  away — I  do  not  desire  any  more  of  you. 

Your  own 
J.  C. 

LETTER  34. 
To  T.  Oarlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Sunday  morning,  Aug.  14, 1842. 

My  Dearest, — There  are  two  notes  from  you  tliis  morning,  one 
on  each  side  of  my  plate;  the  first,  having  the  address  of  Bury, 
only  came  along  with  the  third ;  so  be  sure  you  keep  by  Ixworth 
in  future.  As  for  'Keeting,' it  turned  out  on  investigation  to  be 
neither  more  nor  less  than  Mrs.  BuUer's  way  of  writing  Rectory. 

It  is  much  better  with  me  now,  and  I  find  myself  quite  hefted 
to  my  new  position.  But  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  horrors  of  the 
first  day;  feeling  myself  growing  every  moment  worse;  away  from 
you  all,  and  desperated  by  the  notion  of  confessing  myself  ill,  and 
going  to  bed,  and  causing  a  fuss  among  strangers! 

After  having  written  to  you,  I  tried  sauntering  among  the  trees; 
tried  lying  on  the  sofa  in  my  own  room ;  tried  eating  dinner  (which 
is  rationally  served  up  here  at  three  o'clock),  and  finally  tried  a 
drive  in  the  carriage  with  Mrs.  Buller,  all  the  while  saying  nothing. 
But  instead  of  admiring  the  beauties  of  Livermere  Park,  which 
they  took  me  to  see,  I  was  wondering  whether  I  should  be  able  to 
'  stave  off '  fainting  till  I  got  back.  On  '  descending  from  the  car- 
riage,'^  I  had  finally  to  tell  Mrs.  Buller  I  was  ill  and  would  go  to 
bed.  She  came  upstairs  after  me,  and  offered  me  sal  volatile,  &c. ; 
but  seeing  that  I  would  have  nothing,  and  wanted  only  to  be  let 
alone,  she,  with  her  usual  good-breeding,  pinned  the  bell-rope  to 
my  pillow,  and  went  away.  A  while  after,  feeling  myself  tiirning 
all  cold  and  strange,  I  considered  would  I  ring  the  bell;  I  did  not, 
and  what  came  of  me  I  cannot  tell — whether  I  fainted,  or  suddenly 
fell  dead-asleep;  but  when  I  opened  my  eyes,  as  it  seemed,  a 
minute  or  two  after,  it  was  quite  dark,  and  a  maid  was  lighting  a 
night  lamp  at  the  table!  I  asked  what  o'clock  it  was?  '  Half-past 
eleven!    Would  I  have  tea?'    No.     '  Did  I  want  anything? '    No. 

*  Lady  Harriet  Baring,  afterwards  Lady  Ashburton. 

'  '  Scende  da  carrossa,'  &c.,  said  the  Signora  degli  Antonl,  describing  the 
erratic  town  life  of  a  brilliant  acquaintance  here. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  93 

She  was  no  sooner  gone  than  I  fell  naturally  asleep ;  and  when  the 
cocks  awoke  me  after  daylight,  I  was  quite  free  of  pain,  only  des- 
perately wearied. 

Tlie  asses  did  not  return  the  second  night,  nor  last  night,  and  I 
manage  better  or  worse  to  weave  the  dogs,  cocks,  and  rooks  into 
my  dreams.  My  condition  has  undergone  a  further  amelioration, 
from  having  the  mattress  laid  above  the  down-bed;  it  was  like  to 
choke  me,  besides  that  I  lately  read  somewhere  horrible  things 
about  the  '  miasma '  contracted  by  down-beds  from  all  their  various 
occupants  through  successive  generations!  and  my  imagination  got 
disagreeably  excited  iu  consequence. 

For  the  rest,  nothing  can  be  better  suited  to  my  wants  than  the 
life  one  has  here;  so  that  I  feel  already  quite  at  home,  and  almost 
wishing  that  you  were  Rector  of  Troston — what  a  blessed  exchange 
would  it  be  for  those  poor  people,  whom  I  hear  this  moment  sing- 
ing feckless  psalms!  I  could  almost  find  in  my  heart  to  run  over 
to  the  old  tower,  and  give  them  a  word  of  admonition  myself. 
Reginald  does  not  preach  in  the  morning,  he  reads  service  merely, 
and  preaches  in  the  afternoon ;  I  shall  go  then  to  see  '  how  the 
cretur  gets  through  with  it.'  I  have  not  made  out  yet  whether 
there  is  a  downright  want  in  him,  or  whether  his  faculties  are  sunk 
in  shameful  indolence.  He  is  grown  very  much  into  the  figure  of 
Mr.  Ogilvie  in  miniature ;  when  he  speaks  I  dare  not  look  at  his 
mother,  and  feel  it  a  mercy  for  his  father  that  he  is  so  deaf.  The 
old  people  do  not  mean  to  remain  here, — the  climate  does  not  suit 
Mrs.  Bullcr  in  winter;  but  thej'  have  not  made  up  their  minds 
whether  to  remove  altogether  or  to  hire  some  place  during  the  cold 
weather.     Oh  dear  me !     '  They  '  have  trouble  that  have  the  worl' 


'  In  pious  Scotland  '  the  worl','  or  '  worl's  gear,'  signifies  riches.  Margaret 
(Smith)  Aitken,  an  Annandale  farmer's  wife,  of  small  possessions,  though  of 
iarge  and  faithful  soul,  had  (perhaps  a  hundred  years  ago),  by  strenuous 
industry  and  thrift,  saved  for  herself  twenty  complete  shilUngs— an  actual  £1 
note,  wholly  her  own,  to  do  what  she  liked  with'.— and  was  much  concerned  to 
lay  it  up  in  some  place  of  absolute  safety  against  a  rainy  day.  She  tried  anx- 
iously all  her  '  hussives,'  boxes,  drawers,  a  cunning  hole  in  the  wall,  various 
places,  but  found  none  satisfactory,  and  was  heard  ejaculating,  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  her  young  daughters,  who  never  forgot  it,  '  They  have  trouble  that 
hae  the  worl',  and  trouble  that  haena't! '  There  is  a  Spanish  proverb  to  the 
same  purpose:  '  Cuidados  acarrea  el  oro,  y  cuidados  la  falta  de  el.' 

This  Margaret  Smith,  a  native  of  Annan,  and,  by  all  accounts,  a  kinswoman 
to  be  proud  of  (or,  silently,  to  be  thankful  to  heaven  for),  was  my  mother's 
mother.  It  was  my  mother  (Margaret  Aitken  Carlyle)  who  told  us  this  story 
about  her,  with  a  tone  of  gentle  humour,  pathos,  and  heart's  love,  which  we 


U  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  trouble  that  want  it. '  I  do  not  know  whether  it  be  worst  to  be 
without  the  power  of  indulging  one's  reasonable  wishes  or  to  have 
the  power  of  indulging  one's  whims.  So  many  people  we  know 
seem  to  have  no  comfort  with  their  money,  just  because  it  enables 
them  to  execute  all  their  foolish  schemes. 

Jeaunie  writes  to  me  that  when  you  discovered  my  parasol '  you 
'  crossed  your  hands  in  despair '  as  if  you  had  seen  '  the  sun's  per- 
pendicular heat'  already  striking  down  on  me.  I  thought  you 
would  be  vexing  yourself  about  it;  but  I  have  not  missed  it  in  the 
least;  the  drive  here  the  first  day  was  cold;  and  since  then  I  have 
had  a  parasol  of  Mrs.  Buller's,  who  rejoices  in  two.  And  now 
goodbye,  dearest,  I  have  two  nice  long  letters  from  Jeannie  to  re- 
turn some  acknowledgment  for. 

Your  own 

Jane  C. 

LETTER  35. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Troston:  Monday,  Aug.  J5, 1*42. 

Dearest, — It  was  the  stupidest-looking  breakfast  this  morning 
without  any  letters! — the  absence  of  the  loaf  or  coilec-pot  would 
have  been  less  sensibly  felt!  However,  there  is  no  redress  against 
these  Loudon  Sundays. 

I  went  to  church  yesterday  afternoon,  according  to  programme, 
and  saw  and  heard  '  strange  things,  upon  my  honour.  "•' 


were  used  to  on  such  a  subject.  I  doubt  whether  I  ever  saw  this  good  grand- 
mother. A  vivid  momentary  image  of  some  stranger,  or,  rather,  of  a  formi- 
dable glowing  chintz  gown  belonging  to  some  stranger,  who  might  have  been 
she,  still  rises  perfectly  certain  to  me,  from  my  second  or  third  year;  but  more 
probably  it  was  her  sister,  my  grand-aunt  Barbara,  of  Annan,  with  whom  I 
afterwards  boarded  when  at  school  there  (1806-1808),  and  whom  I  almost  daily 
heard  muttering  and  weeping  about  her  '  dear  Margaret,' and  their  parting 
'  at  the  dylce-eud '  (near  Cargenbridge,  Dumfries  neighbourhood,  I  suppose, 
perhaps  six  years  before),  'sae  little  thinking  it  was  for  the  last  time  I '  It  is 
inconceivable  (till  you  have  seen  the  documents)  what  the  pecuniary  poverty 
of  Scotland  was  a  hundred  years  ago;  and,  again  (of  which  also  I,  for  one, 
still  more  indubitably  '  have  the  documents  ').  its  spiritual  opulence— opulence 
fast  ending  in  these  years,  think  some?  Calif ornian  nuggets  versus  jewels  of 
Heaven  itself,  that  is  a  ruining  barter  1  I  know  rather  clearly,  and  have  much 
considered,  the  history  of  my  kindred  for  the  third  and  second  generations 
back,  and  lament  always  that  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  speak  of  it  at  all  to  the 
flunkey  populations  now  coming  and  come. 
1  Left  behind.  *  Phrase  of  Mazzini's,  frequently  occurring. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  95 

The  congregation  consisted  of  some  tliirty  or  forty  poor  people — 
chiefly  adults;  who  all  looked  at  me  with  a  degree  of  curiosity 
rather  'strong'  for  the  place.  Reginald  ascended  the  pulpit  in  his 
white  vestment,  and,  in  a  loud  sonorous,  perfectly  Church-of-Eng- 
land-like  tone,  gave  out  the  Psalm,  whereupon  there  arose,  at  the 
far  end  of  the  mouldering  church,  a  shrill  clear  sound,  something 
between  a  squeal  of  agony  and  the  highest  tone  of  a  bagpipe!  I 
looked  in  astonishment,  but  could  discover  nothing;  the  congrega- 
tion joined  in  with  the  invisible  thing,  which  continued  to  assert 
its  pi'edominance,  and  it  was  not  till  the  end  of  the  service  that 
Hesketh '  informed  me  that  the  strange  instrument  was  '  a  clarionet '! 
Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention. 

The  service  w^ent  off  quite  respectabl}'^ ;  it  is  wonderful  how 
little  faculty  is  needed  for  saying  prayers  perfectly  well!  But 
when  we  came  to  the  sermon! — greater  nonsense  I  have  often 
enough  listened  to — for,  in  fact,  the  sermon  (Mi-s.  Buller,  with  her 
usual  sincerity,  informed  me  before  I  went)  'was  none  of  his';  he 
had  scraped  together  as  many  written  by  other  people  as  would 
serve  him  for  years,  '  which  was  much  better  for  the  congregation;' 
but  he  delivered  it  exactly  as  daft  Mr.  Hamilton^  used  to  read  the 
newspaper,  with  a  noble  disdain  of  everything  in  the  nature  of  a 
stop;  pausing  just  when  he  needed  breath,  at  the  end  of  a  sen- 
tence, or  in  the  middle  of  a  word,  as  it  happened!  In  the  midst 
of  this  extraordinary  exhortation  an  infant  screamed  out,  '  Away, 
mammy!  Let's  away!'  and  another  bigger  child  went  off  in 
whooping  cough!  For  my  part,  I  was  all  the  while  in  a  state  be- 
tween laughing  and  crying;  nay,  doing  both  alternately.  There 
were  two  white  marble  tablets  before  me,  contaiaing  one  the  vir- 
tues of  a  wife  and  the  sorrow  of  a  husband  (Capel  Loft),  the  other 
a  beautiful  character  of  a  young  girl  dead  of  consumption ;  and  botli 
concluded  witli  the  '  hopes  of  an  immortality  through  Jesus  Christ.' 
And  there  was  an  old  sword  and  sword-belt  hung  on  the  tomb  of 
another,  killed  in  Spain  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight;  he  also  was 
to  be  raised  up  through  Jesus  Ciirist;  and  this  was  tlie  Gospel  of 
Jesus  Christ  I  was  hearing — made  into  something  worse  than  the 
cawing  of  rooks.  I  was  glad  to  get  out,  for  my  thoughts  rose  into 
my  throat  at  last,  as  if  they  would  choke  me;  and  I  privately 
vowed  never  to  go  there  when  worship  was  going  on  again. 

We  drove  as  usual  in  the  evening,  and  also  as  usual  played  the 


>  Mr.  Buller's  butler.  '  Old  Haddington  phenomenon. 


96  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

game  at  chess — 'decidedly  improper,'  but  I  could  not  well  refuse. 
I  sat  in  my  own  room  reading  for  two  hours  after  I  went  upstairs; 
slept  indifferently,  the  heat  being  extreme,  and  the  cocks  inde- 
fatigable; and  now  Mrs.  BuUer  has  sent  me  her  revised  'Play,' 
begging  I  will  read  it,  and  speak  again  my  candid  opinion  as  to  its 
being  fit  to  bo  acted.  So  goodbye,  dearest,  I  shall  have  a  letter  to- 
morrow.    Love  to  Babbie.'    I  wish  she  had  seen  the  Queen. 

^,        Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  36. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Troston:  Wednesday,  Aug.  17, 1842. 
Dearest, — There  will  be  no  news  from  me  at  Chelsea  this  day:  it 
is  to  be  hoped  there  will  not  be  any  great  dismay  in  consequence. 
The  fact  is,  you  must  not  expect  a  daily  letter;  it  occasions  more 
trouble  in  the  house  than  I  was  at  first  aware  of;  nobody  goes  from 
here  regularlj'  to  the  Post-office,  which  is  a  good  two  miles  off; 
only,  when  there  are  letters  to  be  sent,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  BuUer  take 
Ixworth  in  their  evening  dr  ive  and  leave  them  at  the  post-office 
themselves.  Now,  twice  over.  I  liave  found  on  getting  to  Ixworth 
that,  but  for  my  letters,  there  would  have  been  no  occasion  to  go 
that  road,  which  is  an  ugly  one,  while  there  are  beautiful  drives  in 
other  directions;  besides  that,  they  like,  as  I  observe,  to  show  me 
the  county  to  the  best  advantage.  They  write,  themselves,  hardly 
any  letters ;  those  that  come  are  left  by  somebody  who  passes  this 
way  from  Ixworth  early  in  the  morning.  Yesterday  after  break- 
fast, Mr.  BuUer  said  we  should  go  to  Ampton  in  the  evening — a 
beautiful  deserted  place  belonging  to  Lord  Calthorpe — '  unless,'  he 
added,  raising  his  eyebrows,  '  you  have  letters  to  take  to  Ixworth.' 
Of  course  I  said  my  writing  was  not  so  urgent  that  it  could  not  be 
let  alone  for  a  day.  And  to  Ampton  we  went,  where  Reginald  and 
I  clambered  over  a  high  gate,  with  spikes  on  the  top  of  it,  and  en- 
joyed a  stolen  march  through  gardens  unsurpassed  since  the  origi- 
nal Eden,  and  sat  in  a  pavilion  with  the  most  Arabian-tale-looking 
prospect;  'the  Kingdom  of  the  Prince  of  the  Black  Islands' it 
might  have  been ! — and  peeped  in  at  the  open  windows  of  the  old 
empty  house — empty  of  people,  that  is— for  there  seemed  in  it 

1  Cousin  Jeannie. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  97 

everything  mortal  could  desire  for  ease  with  dignity :  such  quanti- 
ties of  fine  bound  books  in  glass  bookcases,  and  easy-chairs,  &c., 
&c. !  And  this  lovely  place  Lord  Calthorpe  has  taken  some  disgust 
to;  and  has  never  set  foot  in  it  again!  Suppose  you  write  and  ask 
him  to  give  it  to  us !  He  is  nearly  mad  with  Evangelical  religion, 
they  say;  strange  that  he  does  not  see  the  sense  of  letting  some- 
body have  the  good  of  what  he  cannot  enjoy  of  God's  providence 
himself!  'Look  at  this  delicious  and  deserted  place,  on  the  one 
side,  and  the  two  thousand  people '  standing  all  night  before  the 
Provost's  door,  on  the  other!  And  yet  you  believe,'  says  Mrs. 
BuUer,  '  that  it  is  a  good  spirit  who  rules  this  world.' 

You  never  heard  such  strange  discourse  as  we  go  on  with,  during 
the  hour  or  so  we  are  alone  before  dinner!  How  she  contrives, 
with  such  opinions  or  no  opinions,  to  keep  herself  so  serene  and 
cheerful,  I  am  perplexed  to  conceive :  is  it  the  old  story  of  the 
'cork  going  safely  over  the  falls  of  Niagara,  where  everything 
weightier  would  sink? '  I  do  not  think  she  is  so  light  as  she  gives 
herself  out  for — at  all  events,  she  is  very  clever,  and  very  good  to 
me. 

On  our  return  from  Ampton,  we  found  Mr.  Loft  waiting  to  tea 
with  us — the  elder  brother  of  the  Aids-to- Self-Development  Loft — 
an  affectionate,  intelligent-looking  man,  but  '  terribly  off  for  a 
language.'**  Though  he  has  been  in  India,  and  is  up  in  years,  he 
looks  as  frightened  as  a  hare.  There  were  also  here  yesterday  the 
grandees  of  the  district,  Mr.  and  the  Lady  Agnes  Byng— one  of  the 
Pagets  '  whom  we  all  know  ' — an  advent  which  produced  no  in- 
considerable emotion  in  our  Radical  household!  For  my  part,  I 
made  myself  scarce;  and  thereby  'missed,'  Reginald  told  me, 
'  such  an  immensity  of  petty  talk — the  Queen,  the  Queen,  at  every 
word  with  Lady  A.' 


'  Paupers,  probably,  but  I  have  forgotten  the  incident. 

*  Rev.  Dr.  Waugh,  principal  Scotch  preacher  in  London,  was  noted,  among 
other  things,  for  his  kindness  to  poor  incidental  Scotchmen,  who,  in  great 
numbers,  applied  to  him  for  guidance,  for  encouragement,  or  whatever  help 
he  could  give,  iii  their  various  bits  of  intricacies  and  affairs  here.  One  of 
these  incidental  clients,  a  solid  old  pedlar  {'up  on  business,'  second-hand, 
most  probably)  had  come  one  day,  and  was  talking  with  'the  mistress,'  who 
said,  at  one  point  of  the  dialogue:  '  Well,  Saunders,  how  do  you  like  the  peo- 
ple here?'  '  Oh,  very  weel,  m'em;  a  nice  weel-conditioned  people,  good-na- 
tured, honest,  very  clever,  too,  in  business  things;  an  excellent  people— but 
terribly  aff  for  a  lang-aitch,  m'em '. '  (This  story  was  current  in  Edinburgh  in 
my  young  time;  Dr.  Waugh  much  the  theme  in  certain  circles  there.) 
I.-5 


98  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  87. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Troston:  Saturday,  Aug.  20, 1842. 

Oh  dear  me!  how  deceitful  are  appearances!  Who  would  not 
say,  to  look  at  this  place,  that  it  was  one  of  the  likeliest  places 
'  here  down  '  on  which  to  be  '  poured  out  of  a  jug  '? '  and  the  fact 
is,  that  sleep  is  just  the  one  thing  that  is  not  to  be  had  in  sufficiency 
for  love  or  money!  Every  night  brings  forth  some  new  variety  of 
assassin  to  murder  sleep!  The  animals  here  seem  to  be  continually 
finding  themselves  in  a  new  position!  And  the  protests  and  ap- 
peals to  posterity  ^  that  ensue,  in  shape  of  braying,  lowing,  crow- 
ing, cackling,  barking,  howling,  &c.,  are  something  the  like  of 
•which  I  have  not  found  in  Israel !  Last  night  it  was  hardly  pos- 
sible for  me  to  close  my  eyes  a  minute  together,  with  the  passionate 
wailing  of  what  seemed  to  be  a  most  ill-used  dog,  not  only  (I 
fancied)  excluded  from  its  proper  home,  but  also  robbed  of  its 
young;  another  or  two  other  such  nights  will  send  me  home  'with 
my  finger  in  my  mouth  to  two  people  both  alike  gleg!'^  Fori 
feel  that  no  country  air,  or  country  diet,  or  country  drives,  or 
country  anything,  can  make  up  for  such  deprivation  of  my  natural 
rest.  It  was  horrible  really! — an  everlasting  wail  as  of  'infants  in 
the  porch  '■*  mixed  up  with  howls  of  fury  and  denunciation,  from 
eleven  at  night  till  six  in  the  morning,  when  I  trust  in  Heaven  the 


1  Driying  up  Piccadilly  once,  on  a  hot  summer  day,  I  had  pointed  out  to  her 
a  rough  human  figure,  lying  prostrate  in  the  Green  Park,  under  the  shade  of 
a  tree,  and  very  visibly  asleep  at  a  furlong's  distance.  '  Look  at  the  Irish- 
man yonder;  in  what  a  depth  of  sleep,  as  if  you  had  poured  him  out  of  a  jug! ' 
I  still  remember  her  bright  little  laugh. 

a  '  Vous  etes  des  injustes,''  said  a  drunken  man,  whom  boys  were  annoying; 
•  je  m'en  appelle  a  la  posterite  ! '    (One  of  Cavaignac's  stories.) 

8  WuU  MaxweU,  Alick's  ploughman  at  Craigenputtock,  one  of  the  stupidest 
fellows  I  ever  saw,  had  been  sent  on  some  message  down  the  glen,  for  behoof 
of  Alick,  and  '  That'll  no  duih  for  an  answer,'  Wull  had  said  to  the  be-mes- 
saged  party;  '  whatU  a  duih  wi'  that  for  an  answer,  and  twae  men,  baith 
alike  gleg  '  (acute,  alert;  German,  klug).  '  sitting  waiting  for  me  yonder? ' 
*  ContinuO  auditae  voces,  vagitus  et  ingens, 
Infantumque  animas  flentes  in  limine  primo; 
Quos  dulcis  vitfB  exsortes,  et  ab  ubere  raptos, 
Abstulit  atra  dies,  et  funere  mersit  acerbo. 

Virgil,  Mneid,  yl.  426-430, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  99 

poor  brute  fell   down  dead.      And  no  whisper  of  it  has  since 
reached  my  ears ;  but 

Once  give  the  fish  a  frying, 
What  helps  it  that  the  river  run?  > 

All  is  quiet  now  externally;  but  my  heart  is  jumping  about  in 
me  like  Mrs.  Grove's  frog  after  the  first  drop  of  tea!  In  the  few 
moments  that  I  slept,  I  dreamt  that  my  mother  came  to  me,  and 
said  that  she  knew  of  'a  beautiful  place  where  it  was  so  quiet! ' — 
and  she  and  I  would  go  there  by  ourselves,  for  some  weeks.  But 
somehow  we  got  into  different  railway  trains;  and  when  I  could 
not  find  her  any  more,  I  screamed  out,  and  awoke,'  and  the  dog 
"was  giving  a  long  howl. 

They  are  very  anxious  you  would  come,  '  and  bring  Miss  Jeannie 
along  with  you.  Regy  would  be  delighted  to  have  a  young  lady ' 
— more  delighted,  I  imagine,  than  the  young  lady  would  be  to  have 
Regy!  although  he  does  improve  on  acquaintance.  Laziness,  and 
what  his  mother  calls  'muddling  habits,'  are  the  worst  things  one 
can  charge  him  with — one  of  the  people  who,  with  the  best  inten- 
tions, are  always  unfortunate ;  ^  but  he  is  very  sweet-tempered  and 
kindly;  deserves  really  the  only  epithet  that  remained  to  him — see- 
ing that  there  was  already  '  the  clever  Buller '  and  '  the  handsome 
Buller '— viz. :  '  the  good  Buller.'  If  he  were  not  so  completely  the 
victim  of  snuff,  I  should  think  an  attractive  Babbie  might  be  bene- 
ficial to  him ;  but  I  would  as  soon  undertake  the  reformation  of  a 
drunkard  as  of  anybody  that  snuffs  as  he  does. 

If  it  were  not  for  the  sleeping  part  of  the  business,  I  would  back 
Mrs.  BuUer's  exhortations  to  you  to  come,  with  my  own.  But 
when  one  of  us  prospers  so  badly  in  that  matter,  1  see  not  what 
would  become  of  two!  Write  a  line  to  Mrs.  Buller  herself,  any- 
liow,  tl)at  she  may  not  think  her  kind  invitations  quite  overlooked. 


1       Comforters. 

'  Oh,  cease  this  well-a-dajring, 
Think  of  the  faithful  saying, 
"  New  joy  when  grief  is  done !"  ' 

Job. 

'To  mock  me  are  you  trying? 

Once  give  the  fish  a  frying, 

What  helps  him  that  the  river  run  ? ' 

GOETHK. 

»  Ah,  me,  what  a  dream  1  *    Phrase  of  brother  John's. 


100  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

I  shall  return,  I  think,  the  week  after  next ;  if  this  dog  goes  on, 
sooner.  They  do  not  seem  to  be  at  all  wearying  of  me;  but  it  were 
too  long  if  I  waited  to  see  symptoms  of  that.  So  far,  I  am  confi- 
dent I  have  not  been  in  their  way,  but  quite  the  reverse;  the  chess 
is  a  gi'eat  resource  for  Mr.  Buller  in  the  first  loneliness  occasioned 
by  the  loss  of  little  Theresa;  and  Mrs.  Buller  seems  to  get  some 
good  of  talking  with  me:  as  for  Reginald,  now  that  he  has  con- 
quered, or  rather  that  I  have  conquered,  his  first  terror,  he  does  not 
seem  to  have  anything  to  object  to  me  very  particularly, 

[Last  leaf  wanting.] 


LETTER  38. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Troston:  Tuesday,  Aug.  23, 1842. 

My  dear  Husband, — The  pen  was  in  my  hand  to  write  yes- 
terday; but  nothing  would  have  come  out  of  me  yesterday  except 
'literature  of  desperation;''  and,  aware  of  this,  I  thought  it  better 
to  hold  my  peace  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours,  till  a  new  night 
had  either  habilitated  me  for  remaining  awhile  longer,  or  brought 
me  to  the  desperate  resolution  of  flj'ing  home  for  my  life.  Last 
night.  Heaven  be  thanked,  went  off  peaceably;  and  to-day  I  am  in 
a  state  to  record  my  last  trial,  without  danger  of  becoming  too 
tragical,  or  alarming  you  with  the  prospect  of  my  making  an 
unseemly  termination  of  my  visit.     (Oh,  what  pens!) 

To  begin  where  I  left  off.  On  Sunday,  after  writing  to  you,  I 
attended  the  afternoon  service!  Regy  looked  so  wae  when  I  an- 
swered his  question  '  whether  I  was  going?  '  in  the  negative,  that 
a  weak  pity  induced  me  to  revise  my  determination.  '  It  is  a  nice 
pew,  that  of  ours,'  said  old  Mr.  Buller;  'it  suits  me  remarkably 
well,  for,  being  so  deep,  I  am  not  overlooked:  and  in  virtue  of  that, 
I  read  most  part  of  the  Femme  de  Qualite  this  morning!'  'But 
don't,'  he  added,  'tell  Mr.  Regy  this!  Had  Theresa  been  there,  I 
would  not  have  done  it,  for  I  like  to  set  a  good  example! '  I  also 
turned  the  depth  of  the  pew  to  good  account;  when  the  sermon  be- 
gan, I  made  myself,  at  the  bottom  of  it,  a  sort  of  Persian  couch  out 
of  the  praying-cushions;  laid  off  my  bonnet,  and  stretched  myself 
out  very  much  at  my  ease.     I  seemed  to  have  been  thus  just  one 

'  Litteratur  der  Verzweiflung  was  Goethe's  definition  of  Victor  Hugo  and 
Co.'s  new  gospel. 


JAKE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  101 

drowsy  minute  when  a  slight  rustling  and  the  words  '  Now  to 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,'  warned  me  to  put  on  my  bonnet,  and 
made  me  for  the  first  time  aware  that  I  had  been  asleep!  For  the 
rest,  the  music  that  day  ought  to  have  satisfied  me;  for  it  seemed 
to  have  remodelled  itself  expressly  to  suit  my  taste— Scotch  tunes, 
produced  with  the  nasal  discordant  emphasis  of  a  Scotch  country- 
congregation,  and  no  clarionet.  I  noticed  in  a  little  square  gallery- 
seat,  the  only  one  in  the  church,  a  portly  character,  who  acts  as 
blacksmith,  sitting  with  a  wand,  some  five  feet  long,  in  his  hand, 
which  he  swayed  about  majestically  as  if  it  had  been  a  sceptre!  On 
inquiring  of  our  man-servant  what  this  could  possibly  mean  or 
symbolise,  he  informed  me  it  was  '  to  beat  the  bad  children.' 
'  And  are  the  children  here  so  bad  that  they  need  such  a  function- 
ary? '  '  Ah,  they  will  always,  them  little  'uus,  be  doing  mischief  in 
the  church:  it's  a-wearisome  for  the  poor  things,  and  the  rod  keeps 
them  in  fear! ' 

In  the  evening,  the  drive,  as  always,  with  this  only  difference, 
that  on  Sunday  evenings  Mr.  Buller  only  walks  the  horse,  from 
principle!  After  this  conscientious  exercising,  the  game  at  chess! 
My  head  had  ached  more  or  less  all  day,  and  I  was  glad  to  get  to 
bed,  where  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  get  to  sleep  without  any 
violent  disturbance.  The  next  day,  however,  my  head  was  rather 
worse  than  better ;  so  that  I  would  fain  have  '  declined  from ' '  calling 
on  Lady  Agnes ;  but  Mrs.  Buller  was  bent  on  going  to  Livermere,  and 
so,  as  I  did  not  feel  up  to  walking,  it  was  my  only  chance  of  get- 
ting any  fresh  air  and  exercise  that  day.  To  Livermere  we  went, 
then,  before  dinner,  the  dinner  being  deferred  till  five  o'clock  to 
suit  the  more  fashionable  hours  of  our  visitees.  'The  Pagets' 
seem  to  be  extremely  like  other  mortals,  neither  better  nor  bonnier 
nor  wiser.  To  do  them  justice,  however,  they  might,  as  we  found 
them,  have  been  sitting  for  a  picture  of  high  life  doing  the  amiable 
and  the  rural  in  the  country.  They  had  placed  a  table  under  the 
shadow  of  a  beech- tree;  and  at  this  sat  Mr.  Byng  studying  the 
'  Examiner; '  Lady  Agnes  reading—'  Oh,  nothing  at  all,  only  some 
nonsense  that  Lord  Londonderry  has  been  printing;  I  cannot  think 
what  has  tempted  him;'  and  a  boy  and  girl  marking  for  a  cricket- 
party,  consisting  of  all  the  men-servants,  and  two  older  little  sons, 
who  were  playing  for  the  entertainment  of  their  master  and  mistress 
and  their  own;  the  younger  branches  ever  and  anon  clapping  their 
hands,  and  calling  out  '  What  fun! '     I  may  mention  for  your  cou- 


^  The  phrase  of  a  rustic  cousin  of  ours,  kind  of  solemn  pedant  in  his  way. 


103  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

solation  that  Mr.  Byng  (a  tall,  gentlemanly,  tose-looking  man)  was 
dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  unbleached  linen ;  while  Babbie  may 
take  a  slight  satisfaction  to  her  curiosity  de  femme  from  knowing 
how  a  Paget  attires  herself  of  a  morning,  to  sit  under  a  beech-tree 
— a  white-flowered  muslin  pelisse,  over  pale  blue  satin ;  a  black  lace 
scarf  fastened  against  her  heart  with  a  little  gold  horse-shoe;  her 
white  neck  tolerably  revealed,  and  set  off  with  a  brooch  of  dia- 
monds; immense  gold  bracelets,  an  immense  gold  chain;  a  little 
white  silk  bonnet  witli  a  profusion  of  blond  and  flowers;  thus  had 
slie  prepared  herself  for  being  rural !  But,  with  all  this  finery,  she 
looked  a  good-hearted,  rattling,  clever  haveral '  sort  of  a  woman. 
Her  account  of  Lord  Londonderry's  sentimental  dedication  to  his 
wife  was  perfect — 'from  a  goose  to  a  goose! ' — and  she  defended 
herself  with  her  pocket  handkerchief  against  the  wasps,  with  an 
energy.  When  we  had  sat  sufficiently  long  under  the  tree,  Mrs. 
Buller  asked  her  to  take  me  through  the  gardens,  which  she  did 
very  politely,  and  gave  me  some  carnations  and  verbenas;  and  then 
through  the  stables,  which  were,  indeed,  tlie  finer  sight  of  the  two. 
All  this  sight-seeing,  however,  did  not  help  my  head;  at  night  I 
let  the  chess  go  as  it  liked ;  took  some  medicine,  and  went  early  to 
bed,  determined  to  be  well  on  the  morrow.  About  twelve,  I  fell 
into  a  sound  sleep,  out  of  which  I  was  startled  by  the  tolling  of  the 
church-bell.  The  church,  you  remember,  is  only  a  stone-cast  from 
the  house;  so  that,  when  the  bell  tolls,  one  seems  to  be  exactly 
under  its  tongue.  I  sprang  up — it  was  half  after  three  by  my  watch 
— hardly  light;  the  bell  went  on  to  toll  two  loud  dismal  strokes  at 
regular  intervals  of  a  minute.  What  could  it  be?  I  fancied  fire — 
fancied  insurrection.  I  ran  out  into  the  passage  and  listened  at 
Regy's  door,  all  was  still ;  then  I  listened  at  Mrs.  Buller's,  I  heard 
her  cough;  surely,  I  thought,  since  she  is  awake,  she  would  ring  her 
bell  if  there  were  anything  alarming  for  her  in  this  tolling,  it  must 
be  some  other  noise  of  the  many  tliey  'have  grown  used  to.'  So  I 
went  to  bed  again,  but,  of  course,  could  not  get  another  wink  of 
sleep  all  night;  for  the  bell  only  ceased  tolling  at  my  ear  about  six 
in  the  morning,  and  then  I  was  too  nervous  to  avail  myself  of  the 
silence.  'What  on  earth  was  that  bell?'  I  asked  Regy  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  '  Oh,  it  was  only  the  passing  bell!  It  was 
ordered  to  be  rung  during  the  night  for  an  old  lady  who  died  the 


>  Good-humoured,  foolish  person.  I  should  not  wonder  if  it  came  from 
Avril  (which  in  old  Scotch  is  corrupted  into  Averil,  and  even  Haver  Hill),  and 
had  originally  meant  '  April  fool.' 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  103 

night  before.'  This  time,  however,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
Mrs.  BuUer  as  augry  as  myself;  for  she  also  had  been  much 
alarmed. 

Of  course,  yesterday  I  was  quite  ill,  with  the  medicine,  the  sleep- 
lessness, and  the  fright ;  and  I  thought  I  really  would  not  stay  any 
longer  in  a  place  where  one  is  liable  to  such  alarms^  But  now,  as 
usual,  one  quiet  night  has  given  me  hopes  of  more ;  and  it  would  be 
a  pity  to  return  worse  than  I  went  away.  I  do  not  seem  to  myself 
to  be  nearly  done;  but  Mr.  Buller  is  sitting  at  my  elbow  with  the 
chess-board,  saying,  '  When  you  are  ready  I  am  ready. '  I  am 
ready.     Love  to  Babbie;  I  have  your  and  her  letter;  but  m,ust  stop. 

Ends  so,  without  signature,  on  inverted  top-margin  of  first  leaf, 
day  of  the  week  is  Tuesday,  date  August  23. 

LETTER  39. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Troston:  Thursday,  Aug.  25, 1842. 

Dear, — I  hardly  expected  my  letter  from  you  this  morning,  so 
that  I  was  all  the  gladder  to  find  it  beside  my  plate  as  usual.  Along 
with  it  was  one  from  Elizabeth  Pepoli;  the  chief  merit  of  which, 
besides  the  kindness  of  writing  at  all,  is  that  "  it  expects  no  answer." 

I  hope  you  have  the  same  refresliing  rain  in  London  which  is  re- 
viving our  drooping  spirits  here;  for  it  is  easy  to  see,  although  you 
try  to  put  the  best  face  on  everything  for  me  at  a  distance,  that  you 
are  suflfering  horribly  from  the  heat.  My  only  consolation  in  think- 
ing of  your  being  in  the  town  and  I  in  the  country  in  such  weather 
is,  that  if  you  might  have  felt  a  less  degree  of  suffocation,  sitting 
out  of  doors  here  during  the  day,  certainly  the  improvement  would 
have  been  counterbalanced  by  the  superior  suffocation  of  our  nights. 
Even  with  door  and  window  wide  open,  it  is  hardly  ijossible  to 
realise  a  breath  of  air;  the  cottage  roof  collects  and  retains  the  heat 
so  very  much  more  than  any  other  sort  of  roof  I  ever  lived  under. 
After  the  first  few  days,  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  remaining  during 
the  mornings  in  my  own  room;  my  head  got  into  a  swimming  con- 
dition, as  when  I  poisoned  myself  with  the  charcoal.'  Mrs.  Buller, 
I  find,  goes  out  of  her  room  into  some  back  apartment;  but  ev^ 
there  I  am  sure  the  closeness  is  very  hurtful  to  her.     The  drawing- 

'  Dangerous  silent  accident  at  Craigenputtoclc,  in  1828,  from  stooping  to  the 
floor  in  a  room  upstairs,  where  a  chauffer  was  burning  against  damp. 


104  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

room  is  the  coolest  place,  and  is  left  to  myself  till  Mrs.  BuUer  comes 
down;  except  for  occasional  inroads  of  Mr.  BuUer  and  Regy  to 
seek  some  volume  of  a  French  novel,  repeated  cargoes  of  which  are 
sent  for  from  Rolandi's.     'A  very  bad  stock,  this  last,'  I  observed 
last  night.     'Yes,'  says  Mr.  Buller,  raising  his  eyebrows;  'when 
French  novels  are  decorous,  they  are  monstrous  stupid!' 
What  do  I  think  of  Clifton?!    What  do  you  think?     'Plunges 
,  in  the  sea' — I  am  afraid  it  is  not  very  conveniently  situated  for 
that;  but  if  you  were  there,  it  would  be  the  easiest  thing  to  run 
over  for  a  few  days  to  your  admiring  Welshman,*  who  is  really  one 
of  the  sensiblest  admirers  you  have;  a  man  who  expresses  his  en- 
thusiasm in  legs  of  mutton  and  peaches,  &c.,  &c.     I  imagine  he 
would  make  a  better  host  than  you  think.     Mrs.  Buller  says  it  is 
an  excellent  scheme,  being  so  very  easy  to  execute;  '  nothing  would 
be  easier,  except  staying  over  September  and  November  here,  where 
I  am  already,  and  having  you  to  join  me! '    With  such  an  extrav- 
agant invitation  as  this,  I  need  not  hesitate  about  staying  another 
week  from  any  apprehension  of  exhausting  their  hospitality.     She 
says  that  she  can  quite  sympathise  with  your  nervous  dislike  to 
making  up  your  mind ;  and  what  you  have  to  do  in  such  a  mood  is 
just  to  come  off  without  making  up  your  mind  at  all;  the  first  cool 
morning  to  put  yourself  in  the  coach,  without  any  previous  engage- 
ment or  determination.     The  only  objection  to  this  is  that,  without 
being  warned,  Mrs.  Buller  could  not  meet  you  at  Bury ;  but  there 
is  another  coach  from  London  which  passes  through  Ixworth  (from 
which  you  could  walk,  being  only  two  miles),  'and  a  coach,'  she 
says,  '  just  made  for  you,  being  called  the  Phenomenon ! '    I  deliver 
all  this  long  message,  without  the  expectation  that  you  will  lay  it 
duly  to  heart.     I  am  thankful  to  hear  that  the  leg  is  in  reality 
mending,  for  it  has  been  a  great  detriment  to  my  repose  of  consci- 
ence while  here;  I  should  never  have  dreamt  of  leaving  my  post  if 
I  had  forseen  that  there  was  to  be  such  a  long  puddlement  before  it 
healed.     I  cannot  understand  how  it  had  gone  back,  for  really  it 
was  almost  closed  when  I  left. 

You  may  tell  Babbie  that  my  ardour  for  nightcap  muslin,  that 
morning,  was  the  most  superfluous  in  nature;  for  except  twice,  to 
mend  a  hole  in  my  black  silk  stockings,  I  have  not  had  a  needle  in 
my  hand  since  I  left  London,  nor  '  wished  to.'    Neither  have  I  so 

1  Invitation  from  a  friend. 

"  Charles  H.  Redwood,  Esq.,  Llaublethian,  Glamorganshire,  called  the  '  Hon- 
est Lawyer '  in  those  parts;  a  man  whom  I  much  esteemed  and  still  reg^ret. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  105 

much  as  wound  the  skein  of  silk  for  my  purse.  I  do  little  in  the 
way  of  reading,  and  of  writing  as  you  know,  and  a  great  deal  of 
nothing  at  all.  I  never  weary,  and  yet  there  is  no  company  comes, 
and,  except  the  evening  drive  and  the  chess,  we  have  no  amuse- 
ments. The  chess,  however,  is  getting  into  the  sphere  of  a  passion. 
Mr.  Buller  'does  not  remember  when  he  had  such  good  playing  as 
this;'  and  so,  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  he  must  have  a 
game  before  dinner  as  well  as  the  one  after  tea.  Sometimes  a  game 
will  last  two  hours,  and  then  there  are  generally  three  hours  con- 
sumed in  the  drive;  so  that  there  remains  no  more  time  on  my 
hfluds  than  I  can  tind  ways  and  means  to  get  rid  of  without  calling 
in  the  aid  of  needlework.  Last  night  we  drove  to  a  place  called 
New  House;  which  is  in  fact  a  very  old  house,  bearing  the  date 
1613.  The  waiuscoat  and  floors  were  polished  to  such  a  pitch  with 
wax  and  turpentine,  that  I  am  certain  I  could  have  skated  on  them! 
The  Lady,  a  married  sister  of  Mr.  Loft's,  showed  me  an  original 
portrait  of  '  Fergusson,  the  self-taught  Philosopher,  who  had  been 
her  mother's  preceptor':  I  was  ashamed  to  ask,  'What  does't 
doe?''  I  never  heard  of  him  in  my  life.  There  were  various 
pictures  besides— Queen  Elizabeth,  Charles  II.,  and  honourable 
women  not  a  few.  To-night  we  are  to  go,  if  it  fairs,  to  take  tea  at 
a  show  place  called  The  Priory,  belonging  to  '  Squire  Cartwright.' 
Mrs.  Buller  is  iutiuitely  kind  in  her  exertions  to  find  me  amuse- 
ment. Bless  thee, 

Your  own  Jane. 

[One  other  letter  followed  from  Troston.  In  a  day  or  two  more 
I  went  thither  myself;  walked  about,  nothing  loth  (as  far  as  Tliet- 
ford  one  day),  sometimes  with  escort,  oftener  witli  none.  Made  at 
last  (mainly  by  Mrs.  Buller's  contrivance,  and  delicate  furtherance), 
'till  Charles  should  come,'  a  riding  tour  iuto  Cromwell's  Country; 
which  did  me  much  benefit  in  tlie  future  Book,  and  was  abundantly 
impressive  at  the  time,  as  indeed  in  memory  it  still  is,  strangely 
vivid  in  all  its  details  at  this  day.  Saw  Hinchinbrook  for  the  first 
time,  St.  Ives,  Godmanchester  (Ely,  Soliam,  &c.);  from  Godman- 
chester  to  Cambridge  trotted  before  a  thunder  cloud,  always  visible 
behind,  which  came  down  in  deluges  half  a  minute  after  1  got  into 
the  Hoop  Hotel,  &c.,  &c.  Can  have  lasted  only  about  four  days 
(three  nights)!  Can  it  be  possible?  1  seem  as  if  almost  a  denizen 
of  that  region,  which  I  never  saw  before  or  since. — T.  C] 


1  Anne  Cook's  question,  when  '  Lord  Jeffrey,'  having  called,  she  reported 
him  '  Lurcherfleld '  (to  general  amazement  1)  and,  getting  rebuked:  '  But  what 
is  a  "  Looard  "  then?    What  diz't  duih? ' 

5* 


106  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 


LETTER  40. 

Follows  Troston,  seemingly  at  short  distance.  Good  old  Mr. 
Dobie's  visit  (Rev.  Emeritus,  Mrs.  Dr.  Russell's  father)  I  remember 
well,  and  that  it  was  in  her  absence.  He  never  '  came  back.'  Letter 
is  infinitely  mournful  to  me,  and  beautiful  in  a  like  degree. 

The  '  Margaret '  is  Margaret  Hiddlestoue,  whom  she  wanted  for 
a  servant,  but  could  not  get. — T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Sept.  1843. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Russell, — I  meant  to  have  written  to  you  yesterday, 
along  with  my  letter  to  Margaret ; — but  how  to  write  to  you  with- 
out mentioning  the  purport  of  my  writing  to  her,  and  how  very 
much  I  had  it  at  heart  that  she  should  come!  And  then  if  it  so 
happened  that  she  applied  to  you  for  advice,  as  is  likely  enough, 
and  that  your  real  opinion  was  she  had  better  remain  with  her 
children?  Between  the  two  you  were  thus,  it  seemed  to  me,  going 
to  find  yourself  in  a  constraint,  in  which  it  was  hardly  fair  to  place 
you.  But  now  this  morning  comes  another  consideration  (I  have 
such  a  way  of  tormenting  myself  with  all  sorts  of  out-of-the-way 
considerations!),  viz.,  that  you  might  think  it  unkind  of  me  to  send 
a  letter  to  your  care  without  a  word,  and  unkindness  towards  you  is 
what  I  could  not  bear  to  lie  under  the  smallest  suspicion  of  even 
for  a  moment.  Oh,  no,  my  dear  Mrs.  Russell,  though  I  should 
never  see  you  more,  nor  hear  from  you  more,  I  shall  think  of  you, 
and  love  you,  and  be  grateful  to  you  as  long  as  I  live.  But  for  the 
knowledge  of  what  you  did  for  her,'  and  how  thankfully  she  felt 
it,  I  know  not  how  I  should  ever  have  brought  myself  to  think  of 
her  last  weeks  with  any  degree  of  composure.  As  it  was,  God 
knows  there  still  remains  enough  to  feel  eternal  regrets  about; — 
but  without  a  friend  like  you,  to  make  her  feel  that  she  was  not 
quite  alone  with  her  sickness  and  her  vexations,  it  would  have  been 
unspeakably  worse  for  her  then,  and  for  me  now. 

How  grieved  I  was  that  I  happened  to  be  absent  during  your 
fatlier's  stay  in  London!  I  felt  somehow  as  if  he  had  come  from 
her — had  brought  me  kind  messages  from  her,  and  I  had  missed 
him!  I  would  have  returned  immediately  on  purpose  to  see  him; 
but  they  knew  that  I  would,  and  so  did  not  tell  me  until  it  was  too 
late.     But  he  will  come  again,  having  found  how  easy  it  is,  will  he 

'  She  means  her  mother. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  107 

not,  and  bring  you  with  him?    Oh,  I  should  like  so  well  to  have 
you  here  I 

I  am  always  very  wtakly  in  health,  though  better  than  when  I 
last  wrote  to  you.  At  present  my  brother-in-law  has  put  me  on  a 
course  of  blue-pill  for  pain  in  my  side.  But,  until  I  turn  what 
health  and  strength  I  have  to  better  account,  I  have  no  business  to 
regret  that  I  have  not  more. 

I  wish  you  would  write  to  me  some  day,  and  tell  me  about  old 
Mary  and  all  the  people.  Thornhill  and  Templand  and  everything 
about  there  is  often  as  distinct  before  my  eyes  as  the  house  and 
street  I  am  actually  living  in — but  as  it  was;  as  it  must  be  now,  I 
can  never  bring  myself  to  figure  it. 

Give  my  kindest  regards  to  your  father  and  husband.  If  felt 
your  father's  letter  very  kind. 

God  bless  you,  dear  Mrs.  Russell. 

■^ver  your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  41. 

Fragment  (very  mournful),  first  small  half  of  it  lost. 

To  Mrs.  Aitken,  DumfiHes. 

Chelsea:  (Early  Summer)  1843. 
What  you  say  of  my  coming  to  Scotland  is  very  kind ;  Isabella, 
too,  has  sent  me  the  heartiest  invitations,  and  I  should  like  so  well 
to  see  you  all  again.  But  when  I  try  to  fancy  myself  on  the  road, 
to  fancy  myself  there,  everything  the  same  for  me  there  as  it  used 
to  be — and  beyond,  nothing  of  all  that  used  to  be — I  feel  so  sick  at 
heart,  and  so  afraid  of  encountering  the  pain  that  seeing  all  those 
places  again,  and  going  about  like  a  ghost  in  them,  would  cause  me, 
that  I  can  do  no  otherwise  but  say  I  will  not  go.  It  looks  very 
cowardly  to  you,  this? — perhaps,  too,  unkind  and  ungrateful  to- 
wards the  living.  But  fancy  yourself  in  my  place,  looking  out  on 
the  hills,  at  the  back  of  which  there  had  so  lately  lain  a  little  loving 
home  for  you,  where  your  mother  had  run  to  meet  you  with  such 
joy;  and  now  nothing  for  you  there  but  the  silence  of  death.  If 
you  do  not  feel  that  you  would  be  just  as  weak,  at  least  you  will 
understand  how  I  might  be  so  without  unkindness.  If  I  were  going 
beside  your  mother  and  all  of  you,  I  should  think  myself  bound  to 
be  cheerful,  and  to  look  as  if  I  were  happy  among  you;  and  until 
I  know  myself  up  to  that,  is  it  not  right  to  stay  away?    At  present 


108  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

it  seems  to  me  I  could  do  nothing  at  Scotsbrig  or  Dumfries  but 
cry  from  morning  till  night.  All  this  is  excessively  weak;  I  am 
quite  aware  of  that,  and  if  anybody  will  show  me  a  way  of  being 
stronger,  I  will  follow  it  to  my  best  ability :  but  merely  telling  me 
or  telliug  myself  to  be  stronger  is  of  no  use. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  Cablyle. 

LETTER  42. 
To  Miss  Helen  Welsh,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  March  1843. 

My  dearest  Helen, — After  (in  Dumfries  and  Galloway- Courier 
phraseology)  '  taking  a  bird's-eye  view '  of  all  modern  literature,  I 
am  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that,  to  find  a  book  exactly  suited  to 
my  uncle's  taste,  I  must  write  it  myself!  and,  alas,  that  cannot  be 
done  before  to-morrow  morning! 

'  La  Motte  Foque's  "Magic  Ring,'"  suggests  Geraldine'  (Jews- 
bury).  'Too  mystical!  My  uncle  detests  confusion  of  ideas.' 
'Paul  de  Kock?  he  is  very  witty.'  'Yes,  but  also  very  indecent; 
and  my  uncle  would  not  relish  indecencies  read  aloud  to  him  by  his 
daughters.'  'Oh!  ah!  well!  Miss  Austin?'  'Too  washy;  water- 
gruel  for  mind  and  body  at  the  same  time  were  too  bad.'  Timidly, 
and  after  a  pause,  '  Do  you  think  he  could  stand  Victor  Hugo's 
"Notre  Dame"?'  The  idea  of  my  uncle  listening  to  the  senti- 
mental monstrosities  of  Victor  Hugo!  A  smile  of  scorn  was  this 
time  all  my  reply.  But  in  my  own  suggestions  I  have  been  hardly 
more  fortunate.  All  the  books  that  pretend  to  amuse  in  our  day 
come,  in  fact,  either  under  that  category,  which  you  except  against, 
'the  extravagant,  clown-jesting  sort,'  or  still  worse,  under  that  of 
what  I  should  call  the  galvanised -death's-head-grinning  sort.  There 
seems  to  be  no  longer  any  genuine,  heart-felt  mirth  in  writers  of 
books ;  they  sing  and  dance  still  ingourexisement,  but  one  sees  always 
too  plainly  that  it  is  not  voluntarily,  but  only  for  halfpence;  and  for 
halfpence  they  will  crack  their  windpipes,  and  cut  capers  on  the 
crown  of  their  heads,  poor  men  that  they  are ! 

I  bethink  me  of  one  book,  however,  which  we  have  lately  read 
here,  bearing  a  rather  questionable  name  as  a  book  for  my  uncle, 
but,  nevertheless,  I  think  he  would  like  it.     It  is  called  '  Passages 


'  Miss  Geraldine  Jewsbury,  with  whom  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  just  become  ac- 
quainted, remained  her  most  intimate  friend  to  the  end  of  her  life.— J.  A.  F. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  109 

from  the  Life  of  a  Radical,'  by  Samuel  Bamford,  a  silk-weaver  of 
Middleton.  He  was  one  of  those  who  got  into  trouble  during  the 
Peterloo  time;  and  the  details  of  what  he  then  saw  and  suffered  are 
given  with  a  simplicity,  an  intelligence,  an  absence  of  everything 
like  party  violence,  which  it  does  one  good  to  fall  in  with,  especially 
in  these  inflated  times. 

There  is  another  book  that  might  be  tried,  though  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  has  not  a  little  too  much  affinity  with  water-gruel,  '  The 
Neighbours,'  a  domestic  novel  translated  from  the  Swedish  by  Mary 
Howitt.  There  is  a  '  Little  Wife '  in  it,  with  a  husband  whom  she 
calls  'Bear,'  that  one  never  wearies  of,  although  they  never  say  or 
do  anything  in  the  least  degree  extraordinary. 

Geraldine  strongly  recommends  Stephen's  '  Incidents  of  Travel  in 
Egypt,  Arabia,  and  Petrea,'  as  'very  interesting  and  very  short.' 
Also  Waterton's  '  Wanderings  in  South  America.'  There  are  two 
novels  of  Paul  de  Kock  translated  into  English,  which  might  be 
tried  at  least  without  harm  done,  for  they  are  unexceptionable  in 
the  usual  sense  of  that  term,  the  'Barber  of  Paris,'  and  'Sister 
Anne.' 

I  have  read  the  last,  not  the  first,  and  I  dare  say  it  would  be  very 
amusing  for  anyone  who  likes  'Gil  Bias,'  and  that  sort  of  books; 
for  my  taste  it  does  not  get  on  fast  enough. 

There!  enough  of  books  for  one  day.  Thank  you  for  your  let- 
ter, dear.  If  I  had  not  wee  angels  to  write  me  consolatory  mis- 
sives at  present,  I  should  really  be  terribly  ill  off.  My  maid 
continues  highly  inefficient,  myself  ditto;  the  weather  complicates 
everything;  for  days  together  not  a  soul  comes,  and  then  if  the  sun 
glimmers  forth  a  whole  rush  of  people  breaks  in,  to  the  very  taking 
away  of  one's  breath! 

Yesterday,  between  the  hours  of  three  and  five,  we  had  old 
Sterling,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  von  Glehen,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Macready,  John 
Carlyle,  and  William  Cunningham.  Geraldine  professed  to  be 
mightily  taken  with  Mrs.  Macreadj',  not  so  much  so  with  'Wil 
liam!  Poor  dear  William!  I  never  thought  him  more  interesting, 
however.  To  see  a  man,  who  is  exhibiting  himself  every  night  on 
a  stage,  blushing  like  a  young  girl  in  a  private  room  is  a  beautiful 
phenomenon  for  me.  His  wife  whispered  into  my  ear,  as  we  sat 
on  the  sofa  together,  '  Do  you  know  poor  William  is  in  a  perfect 
agony  to-day  at  having  been  brought  here  in  that  great-coat  ?  It  is 
a  stage  great-coat,  but  was  only  worn  by  him  twice;  the  piece  it 
was  made  for  did  not  succeed,  but  it  was  such  an  expensive  coat, 


110  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

I  would  not  let  him  give  it  away;  and  doesn't  he  look  well  in  it? 
I  wish  Jeannie  had  seen  him  in  the  coat — magnificent  fur  neck  and 
sleeves,  and  such  frogs  on  the  front.      He  did  look  well,  but  so 
heartily  ashamed  of  himself. 

Oh,  I  must  tell  you,  for  my  uncle's  benefit,  a  domestic  catas- 
trophe that  occurred  last  week!  One  day,  after  dinner,  I  heard 
Helen  lighting  the  fire,  which  had  gone  out,  in  the  room  above, 
with  a  perfectly  unexampled  vengeance ;  every  stroke  of  the  poker 
seemed  an  individual  effort  of  concentrated  rage.  What  ails  the 
creature  now  ?  I  said  to  myself.  "Who  has  incurred  her  sudden  dis- 
pleasure ?  or  is  it  the  red  herring  she  had  for  dinner  which  has 
disagreed  with  her  stomach?  (for  in  the  morning,  you  must  know, 
when  I  was  ordering  the  dinner,  she  had  asked,  might  she  have  a 
red  herring?  'her  heart  had  been  set  upon  it  this  a  good  while 
back; '  and,  of  course,  so  modest  a  petition  received  an  unhesitating 
aflarmative.)  On  her  return  to  the  subterranean,  the  same  hubbub 
wild  arose  from  below,  which  had  just  been  trying  my  nerves  from 
above;  and  when  she  brought  up  the  tea-tray,  she  clanked  it  on  the 
lobby-table  as  if  she  were  minded  to  demolish  the  whole  concern  at 
one  fell  stroke.  I  looked  into  her  face  inquiringly  as  she  entered 
the  room,  and  seeing  it  black  as  midnight  {moraUy,  that  is),  I  said 
very  coolly,  '  A  little  less  noise,  if  you  please;  you  are  getting  rather 
loud  upon  us.'  She  cast  up  her  eyes  with  the  look  of  a  martyr  at 
the  stake,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Well,  if  I  must  be  quiet,  I  must;  but 
you  little  know  my  wrongs.'  By-and-by  Geraldine  went  to  the 
kitchen  for  some  reason ;  she  is  of tener  in  the  kitchen  in  one  day 
than  I  am  in  a  month,  but  that  is  irrelevant.  '  Where  is  the  cat  ?  * 
said  she  to  Helen ;  '  I  have  not  seen  her  all  night. '  She  takes  a 
wonderful,  most  superfluous  charge  of  the  cat,  as  of  everything 
else  in  this  establishment.  '  The  cat! '  said  Helen  grimly,  '  I  have 
all  but  killed  her.'  'How?'  said  Geraldine.  'With  the  besom,' 
replied  the  other.  '  Why  ?  for  goodness'  sake.'  'Why! '  repeated 
Helen,  bursting  out  into  new  rage;  'why  indeed?  Because  she 
ate  my  red  herring!  1  set  it  all  ready  on  the  end  of  the  dresser,  and 
she  ran  away  with  it,  and  ate  it  every  morsel  to  the  tail — such  an 
unheard  of  thing  for  the  brute  to  do.  Oh,  if  I  could  have  got  hold 
her,  she  should  not  have  got  off  with  her  life!'  'And  have  you 
had  no  dinner  ? '  asked  Geraldine.  '  Oh,  yes,  I  had  mutton 
enough,  but  I  had  just  set  my  heart  on  a  red  herring.'  Which  was 
the  most  deserving  of  having  a  besom  taken  to  her,  the  cat  or  the 
woman  ? 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  Ill 

My  love  to  Babbie;  her  letter  to-day  is  most  comfortable.  Bless- 
ings on  you  all. 

Your  affectionate  cousin, 

J.  Welsh. 

LETTER  43. 

To  Miss  Helen  Welsh,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  March  1843. 

Now,  do  you  deserve  that  I  should  send  you  any  letter,  any 
autograph,  anything,  thou  graceless,  '  graceful  Miss  Welsh '  ?  I 
think  not;  but  'if  everyone  had  his  deserts,  which  of  us  should 
escape  whipping? '  And  besides  I  see  not  what  virtues  remain 
possible  for  me,  unless  it  be  the  passive  ones  of  patience  and  for- 
giveness; for  which,  thank  Heaven,  there  is  always  open  course 
enough  in  this  otherwise  tangled  world! 

Three  of  the  autographs,  which  I  send  you  to-day,  are  first-rate. 
A  Yankee  would  almost  give  a  dollar  apiece  for  them.  Entire 
characteristic  letters  from  Pickwick,  Lytlon  Bulwer,  and  Alfred 
Tennyson;  the  last  the  greatest  genius  of  tlie  three,  though  the 
vulgar  public  have  not  as  yet  recognised  him  for  such.  Get  his 
poems  if  you  can,  and  read  the  'Ulysses,'  'Dora,'  the  'Vision  of 
Sin,'  and  you  will  find  that  we  do  not  overrate  him.  Besides  he  is 
a  very  handsome  man,  and  a  noble-hearted  one,  with  something  of 
the  gypsy  in  his  appearance,  which,  for  me,  is  perfectly  charming. 
Babbie  never  saw  him,  unfortunately,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  for- 
tunately, for  she  must  have  fallen  in  love  with  him  on  the  spot, 
unless  she  be  made  absolutely  of  ice ;  and  then  men  of  genius  have 
never  anything  to  keep  wives  upon ! 

Jane  Carltle. 

LETTER  44. 
To  John  Sterling,  Esq.,  Falmouth. 

Chelsea:  June  (?)  1843. 
My  dear  John,— Thank  you  passionately  for  giving  me  ViUoria 
Accoramboni;  and  thank  j^ou  even  more  for  knowing  beforehand 
that  I  should  like  her.  Your  presentiment  that  this  was  '  a  woman 
exactly  after  my  own  heart'  so  pleases  my  own  heart!  proves  that 
I  am  not  universally  'a  woman  misunderstood.'  But  you  said 
nothing  of  the  man  after  my  own  heart,  so  that  Bracciano  took  me 


112  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

by  surprise,  and  has  nearly  turned  my  head !  My  very  beau-ideal 
of  manhood  that  Paul  Giordano ;  could  I  hear  of  the  like  of  him 
existing  anywhere  in  these  degenerate  times,  I  would,  even  at  this 
late  stage  of  the  business — send  him — my  picture !  and  an  offer  of 
my  heart  and  hand  for  the  next  world,  since  they  are  already  dis- 
posed of  in  this.  Ah !  what  a  man  that  must  be,  who  can  strangle 
his  young,  beautiful  wife  with  his  own  hands,  and,  bating  one 
moment  of  conventional  horror,  inspire  not  the  slightest  feeling  of 
aversion  or  distrust!  When  a  man  strangles  his  wife  nowadays  he 
does  it  brutally,  in  drink,  or  in  passion,  or  in  revenge;  to  transact 
such  a  work  coolly,  nobly,  on  the  loftiest  principles,  to  strangle  with 
dignity  because  the  woman  '  was  unworthy  of  him,'  that  indeed  is 
a  triumph  of  character  which  places  this  Bracciano  above  all  the 
heroes  of  ancient  or  modern  times;  which  makes  me  almost  weep 
that  I  was  not  born  two  centuries  earlier,  that  I  might  have  been — 
his  mistress — not  his  wife! 

But  what  think  you  befel  ?  In  the  simplicity  of  my  heart  I  lent 
the  book  to  a  friend,  a  man  of  course,  whose  hitherto  version  of 
me  has  borne  a  considerable  resemblance  to  the  Santa  Maria;  lent 
it  too  with  all  my  marginal  marks  (as  Carlyle  would  say)  '  signifi- 
cant of  much ' !  And  when  the  man '  brought  it  back  he  could 
neither  look  at  me  nor  speak  to  me;  but  blushed  and  stammered,  as 
if  he  were  in  the  presence  of  a  new  goddess  of  reason.  Disliking 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  1  asked  him  plain  out,  what  ailed  him?  '  The 
truth  is,'  said  he,  'Mrs.  Carlyle,  that  book'  (looking  at  it  askance) 
'  has  confused  me !  May  I  ask  who  recommended  to  you  that  book? ' 
'  A  clergyman,'  said  I;  for  the  first  and  probably  the  last  time  in 
my  life  recognising  your  sacred  vocation;  '  John  Sterling  gave  it  to 
me.'  'The  son?'  'Yes,  to  be  sure,  the  son,' and  then  I  laughed 
outright,  and  the  man  looked  at  me  with  a  mingled  expression  of 
pity  and  alarm,  and  changed  the  subject. 

Jane  Carlyle. 

Fragments  of  letters  to  T.  Carlyle,  July  1843. 

The  house  in  Cheyne  Row  requiring  paiut  and  other  re-adjust- 
ments, Carlyle  had  gone  on  a  visit  to  Wales,  leaving  his  wife  to  en- 
dure the  confusion  and  superintend  the  workmen,  alone  with  her 
maid.— J.  A.  F. 

July  4,  1843. — The  first  night  is  over,  and  we  are  neither  robbed 

nor  murdered.     I  must  confess,  however,  that  I  observed  last  night 

■ — ■ — ^ c '~~~~ — ' 

I  Can't  guess  what '  man.' 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  113 

for  the  first  time  with  what  tremendous  facility  a  thief  with  tlie 
average  thief  agility  might  swing  himself,  by  laying  hold  of  the 
spout,  off  the  garden  wall  into  my  dressing  closet,  leaving  me  no 
time  to  spring  my  rattle,  or  even  unsheath  my  dagger.  '  You  must 
excuse  us  the  day ; '  I  am  in  a  complete  mess,  and  my  pen  refuses  to 
mark.  I  shall  be  in  a  complete  mess  for  a  time,  times  and  a  half. 
I  will  perhaps  go  for  a  few  days  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  for  breathing, 
in  the  midst  of  it;  but  I  shall  not  be  done  with  my  work  this  month 
to  come.  You  see  you  do  so  hate  commotion  that  this  house  gets 
no  periodic  cleanings  like  other  people's  and  one  must  make  the 
most  of  your  absence. 

July  11.— It  has  been  such  a  morning  as  you  cannot  figure:  a 
painter  filling  the  house  with  terrific  smells,  the  whitewashers  still 
whitewashing,  Pearson  and  men  tearing  out  the  closet,  and  the  boy 
always  grinding  with  pumice  stone.  Having  been  taught  politeness 
to  one's  neighbours  by  living  next  door  to  Mr.  Chalmers,  I  wrote  a 
note  to  Mr.  Lambert,  No.  6,  regretting  that  his  and  his  family's 
slumbers  were  probably  curtailed  by  my  operations,  and  promising 
that  the  nuisance  would  have  only  a  brief  term.  This  brought  Mr. 
Lambert  upon  me  (virtue  ever  its  own  reward),  who  stayed  for  an 
hour,  talking,  you  know  how.  Then  I.  ,  .  .  And  you  do  not 
like  my  beautiful  '  Vittoria'!  oh,  what  want  of  taste! 

July  12. — If  you  had  seen  me  last  night  asleep  you  would  have 
seen  a  pretty  sight.  The  paint  was  smelling,  of  course — one  can't 
make  a  household  revolution,  any  more  than  a  State  one,  with  rose 
water;  and  so  this  house  did  not  smell  of  rose  water,  I  can  assure 
you.  Old  Sterling  had  said  so  much  about  Its  costing  me  my  life, 
and  the  absolute  necessity  of  my  at  least  sleeping  at  his  house,  that 
I  did  begin  to  think  it  my  cause  me  a  headache!  So  I  took  all  wise 
precautions  against  it,  kept  my  door  carefully  shut  all  day,  and 
slept  with  both  my  windows  open,  so  that  I  really  suffered  very  little 
inconvenience  from  the  smell.  But  just  when  I  was  going  to  bed, 
it  occurred  to  me  that  in  this  open  state  of  things,  with  several 
ladders  lying  quite  handy  underneath  the  window,  '  heavy  bodies 
might,'  as  Helen  phrased  it,  '  drop  in,'  and  be  at  my  pillow  before  I 
heard  them;  so,  feeling  it  my  duty  to  neglect  no  proper  precaution, 
I  laid  my  dagger  and  the  great  policeman's  rattle  on  the  spare  pillow 
and  went  to  sleep  quite  pleasantly,  without  any  more  thought  about 
thieves. 

I  have  got  such  a  pretty  writing  establishment— a  sort  of  gipsy's 
tent,  which  I  have  mounted  in  the  garden  '  with  my  own  hands,' 


114  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

constructed  out  of  the  clothes  rope  and  posts  and  the  crumb  cloth 
of  the  libraiy !  I  sit  under  its  '  dark  brown  shade — wh ' ' — the 
Macready  of  Nature — an  armchair,  and  the  little  round  table,  with 
my  writing  msterials,  and  my  watch  to  keep  me  in  mind  that  I  am 
in  a  time  world,  a  piece  of  carpet  under  foot,  and  a  foot-stool.  Be- 
hold all  that  is  necessary  for  my  little  garden  house!  Woman 
wants  but  little  here  below — an  old  crumb  cloth  mainly,  you  per- 
ceive. But  one  has  no  credit  in  being  jolly  in  such  a  pretty 
bower.  By-and-by  I  shall  have  to  return  indoors,  'to  come  out 
strong.' 

July  17. — Tout  va  bien.  The  work  goes  well,  and  myself  goes 
well.  The  early  rising  and  the  shower-bathing  and  the  having 
something  to  look  after  agrees  with  me  wonderfully.  The  degree 
of  heat  also  is  exactly  suited  to  my  needs.  This  and  the  other  per- 
son drops  in  and  asks  me  if  I  do  not  feel  very  lonely?  It  is  odd 
what  notions  men  seem  to  have  of  the  scantiness  of  a  woman's 
resources.  They  do  not  find  it  anything  out  of  nature  that  they 
should  be  able  to  exist  by  themselves;  but  a  woman  must  always 
be  borne  about  on  somebody's  shoulders,  and  dandled  and  chirped 
to,  or  it  is  supposed  she  will  fall  into  the  blackest  melancholy. 
When  I  answered  that  question  from  Arthur  Helps  yesterday, 
'  Why  should  I  feel  lonely?  I  have  plenty  to  do,  and  can  see  human 
beings  whenever  I  look  out  at  the  window,'  he  looked  at  me  as  if  I 
had  uttered  some  magnanimity  worthy  to  have  place  in  a  '  Legiti- 
mate Drama,'  and  said,  '  Well,  really  you  are  a  model  of  a  wife.' 

LETTER  45. 

To  John  Welsh,  Esq. ,  The  Baths,  Helensburgh. 

Chelsea:  July  18,  1843. 
Dearest,  dear  only  Uncle  of  me, — I  would  give  a  crown  that  you 
could  see  me  at  this  moment  through  a  powerful  telescope !    You 

'  '  Dark  brown  shade  '  was  to  both  of  us  infinitely  ridiculous  in  this  place, 
though  the  spirit  of  it  is  now  fled  irrevocably.  Dr.  Ritchie,  divinity  professor 
in  Edinburgh,  was  a  worthy,  earnest,  but  somewhat  too  pompous  and  con- 
sciously eloquent,  old  gentleman.  He  had  no  teeth,  a  great  deal  of  white  hair, 
spoke  in  a  sonorous,  mumbling  voice,  with  much  proud,  almost  minatory, 
wagging  of  the  head,  and  to  a  rhythm  all  his  own,  which  loved  to  end  always 
with  an  emphatic  syllable,  with  victorious  grave  accent,  and  a  kind  of  '  wh,' 
or  'h,'  superadded.  For  confutation  of  Gibbon,  his  principal  argument — the 
only  one  that  I  can  recollect — was  that  Gibbon  in  his  later  years,  grown  rich, 
famous,  &c.,  &c.,  confessed  that  the  end  of  life  to  him  was  involved  in  a 
*  dark  brown  shade— wh.' 


JA202  WELSH  CARLYLE.  115 

would  laugh  for  the  next  twelve  hours.  I  am  doing  the  rural  after 
a  fashion  so  entirely  my  own!  To  escape  from  the  abominable 
paint-smell,  and  the  infernal  noise  within  doors,  I  have  erected, 
with  my  own  hands,  a  gipsy-tent  in  the  garden,  constructed  with 
clothes  lines,  long  poles,  and  an  old  brown  floor  cloth !  under  which 
remarkable  shade  I  sit  in  an  arm-charm  at  a  small  round  table,  with 
a  hearth  rug  for  carpet  under  my  feet,  writing-materials,  sewing- 
materials,  and  a  mind  superior  to  Fate! 

The  only  drawback  to  this  retreat  is  its  being  exposed  to  '  the 
envy  of  surrounding  nations';  so  many  heads  peer  out  on  me  from 
all  the  windows  of  the  Row,  eager  to  penetrate  my  meaning!  If  I 
had  a  speaking  trumpet  I  would  address  them  once  for  all: — 
•Ladies  and  Gentlemen, — I  am  not  here  to  enter  my  individual  pro- 
test against  the  progress  of  civilization!  nor  yet  to  mock  you  with 
an  Arcadian  felicity,  which  you  have  neither  the  taste  nor  the  in- 
genuity to  make  your  own !  but  simply  to  enjoy  Nature  according 
to  ability,  and  to  get  out  of  the  smell  of  new  paint!  So,  pray  you, 
leave  me  to  pursue  my  innocent  avocations  in  the  modest  seclusion 
which  I  covet!' 

Not  to  represent  my  contrivance  as  too  perfect,  I  must  also 
tell  you  that  a  strong  puff  of  wind  is  apt  to  blow  down  the 
poles,  and  then  the  whole  tent  falls  down  on  my  head!  This 
has  happened  once  already  since  I  began  to  write,  but  an  instant 
puts  it  all  to  rights  again.  Indeed,  without  counteracting  the 
indoors  influences  by  all  lawful  means,  I  could  not  stay  here  at 
present  without  injury  to  my  health,  which  is  at  no  time  of  the 
strongest.  Our  house  has  for  a  fortnight  back  been  a  house  pos- 
sessed by  seven  devils!  a  painter,  two  carpenters,  a  paper-hanger, 
two  nondescript  apprentice-lads,  and  'a  spy; '  all  playing  the  devil 
to  the  utmost  of  their  powers;  hurrying  and  scurrying  'upstairs, 
downstairs,  and  in  my  lady's  chamber! '  affording  the  liveliest  im- 
age of  a  sacked  city! 

When  they  rush  in  at  six  of  the  morning,  and  spread  themselves 
over  the  premises,  I  instantly  jump  out  of  bed,  and  '  in  wera  des- 
peration '  take  a  shower  bath.  Then  such  a  long  day  to  be  virtuous 
in!  I  make  chair  and  sofa  covers;  write  letters  to  my  friends; 
scold  the  work-people,  and  suggest  improved  methods  of  doing 
things.  And  when  I  go  to  bed  at  night  I  have  to  leave  both  win- 
dows of  my  room  wide  open  (and  plenty  of  ladders  lying  quite 
handy  underneath),  that  I  may  not,  as  old  Sterling  predicted, 
'  awake  dead '  of  the  paint. 

The  first  night  that  I  lay  down  in  this  open  state  of  things,  I 


116  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

recollected  Jeannie's  house-breaker  adventure  last  year,  and,  not 
"wishing  that  all  the  thieves  who  might  walk  in  at  my  open  win- 
dows should  take  me  quite  unprepared,  I  laid  my  policeman's 
rattle  and  my  dagger  on  the  spare  pillow,  and  then  I  went  to  sleep 
quite  secure.  But  it  is  to  be  confidentlj'^  expected  that,  in  a  week 
or  more,  things  will  begin  to  subside  into  their  normal  state;  and 
meanwhile  it  were  absurd  to  expect  that  any  sort  of  revolution  can 
be  accomplished.  There!  the  tent  has  been  down  on  the  top  of  Tne 
again,  but  it  has  only  upset  the  ink. 

Jeannie  appears  to  be  earthquaking  with  like  energy  in  Mary- 
land Street,  but  finds  time  to  write  me  nice  long  letters  neverthe- 
less, and  even  to  make  the  loveliest  pincushion  for  my  birthday; 
and  my  birthday  was  celebrated  also  with  the  arrival  of  a  hamper, 
into  which  1  have  not  yet  penetrated.  Accept  kisses  ad  infinitum 
for  your  kind  thought  of  me,  dearest  uncle.  I  hope  to  drink  your 
health  many  times  in  the  Madeira'  when  I  have  Carlyle  with  me 
again  to  give  an  air  of  respectability  to  the  act.  Nay,  on  that 
evening  when  it  came  to  hand,  I  was  feeling  so  sad  and  dreary 
over  the  contrast  between  this  Fourteenth  of  July — alone,  in  a 
house  like  a  sacked  city,  and  other  Fourteenths  that  I  can  never 
forget,  that  I  hesitated  wliether  or  no  to  get  myself  out  a  bottle  of 
the  Madeira  there  and  then,  and  try  for  once  in  my  life  the  hith- 
erto unknown  comfort  of  being  dead  drunk.  But  my  sense  of  the 
respectable  overcame  the  temptation. 

My  husband  has  now  left  his  Welshman,  and  is  gone  for  a  little 
while  to  visit  the  Bishop  of  St.  David's.  Then  he  purposes  cross- 
ing over  somehow  to  Liverpool,  and,  after  a  brief  benediction  to 
Jeannie,  passing  into  Annandale.  He  has  suffered  unutterable 
things  in  Wales  from  the  want  of  any  adequate  supply  of  tea! 
For  the  rest,  his  visit  appears  to  have  been  pretty  successful; 
plenty  of  sea-bathing;  plenty  of  riding  on  horseback,  and  of  lying 
under  trees !  I  wonder  it  never  enters  his  head  to  lie  under  the 
walnut-tree  here  at  home.  It  is  a  tree!  leaves  as  green  as  any 
leaves  can  be,  even  in  South  Wales  I  but  it  were  too  easy  to  repose 
under  that:  if  one  had  to  travel  a  long  journey  by  railway  to  it, 
then  indeed  it  miglit  be  worth  while! 

But  I  have  no  more  time  for  scribbling  just  now ;  besides,  my 
pen  is  positively  declining  to  act.  So,  God  bless  you,  dear,  and  all 
of  them.  Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

1  Present  sent  from  Liverpool. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  117 

LETTER  46. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  LlandougTi,  Cowbridge. 

Chelsea:  Jiily  18,  1843. 
Dearest, — I  take  time  by  the  pigtail,  and  write  at  niglit  after 
post-hours.  During  the  day  there  is  such  an  infernal  noise  of 
pumice-stone,  diversified  by  snatches  of  'wild  strains;'  the  youth 
■who  is  scraping  the  walls  (as  if  it  were  a  hundred  knife-grinders 
melted  into  one)  consoling  himself  under  the  hideous  task  by  strik- 
ing up  every  two  minutes  'The  Red  Cross  Knight,'  or  'Evelyn's 
Bower,'  or  some  such  plaintive  melody,  which,  after  a  brief  at- 
tempt to  render  itself  'predominant,'  '  dies  aww  into  unintelligible 
•whinner.''  Yesterday  forenoon  Mrs.  Chadwick  came;  and  had 
just  seated  herself  on  the  sofa  beside  me,  and  was  beginning  to  set 
forth  amiabilities;  when  bang,  bang,  crash,  screech,  came  the 
pumice-stone  over  the  room-door,  to  the  tune 

Oh  rest  thee,  my  darling, 
Thy  sire  is  a  knight;  &c.,  &c., 

making  us  both  start  to  our  feet  with  a  little  scream  and  then  fall 
back  again  in  fits  of  laughter.  Then  the  stairs  are  all  flowing 
with  whitewash,  and  '  altogether '  when  I  fancy  you  here  '  in  the 
midst  of  it,'  I  do  not  know  whether  to  laugh,  or  to  cry,  or  to 
shriek. 

But  it  will  be  a  clean  pretty  house  for  you  to  come  home  to ;  and 
should  you  find  that  I  have  exceeded  by  a  few  pounds  j-our  modest 
allowance  for  painting  and  papering,  you  will  find  that  I  have  not 
been  thoughtless  nevertheless,  when  I  show  you  a  document  from 
Mr.  Morgan,-  promising  to  'indemnify  us  for  the  same  in  the  un- 
disturbed possession  of  our  house  for  five  years! '  A  piece  of  paper 
equivalent  to  a  lease  of  the  house  for  five  years,  '  with  the  reci- 
procity all  on  one  side,'  binding  him  and  leaving  us  free.  '  Such  a 
thing,'  old  Sterling  said,  who  attended  me  to  Pope's  Head  Alley, 
'as  no  woman  but  myself  would  have  had  the  impudence  to  ask, 
nor  any  lawyer  in  his  senses  the  folly  to  grant.'  I  do  not  see  but 
we  might  get  a  lease  of  the  house  after  all  for  as  long  as  we  pleased, 


'  My  father's  account  of  a  precentor  who  lost  his  tune,  desperatelj'  tried 
several  others,  and  then  '  died  away  into  an,'  &Ct 
'  Lawyer  in  the  city;  virtual  proprietor  here. 


118  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

if  I  went  about  it,  instead  of  the  \o\n\)chious  Perry. '  This  was 
one  of  those  remarkable  instances  of  fascination  which  I  exercise 
over  gentlemen  of  a  '  certain  age ; '  before  I  had  spoken  six  words 
to  him  it  was  plain  to  the  meanest  capacity  that  he  had  fallen  over 
head  and  ears  in  love  with  me ;  and  if  he  put  off  time  in  writing 
me  the  promise  I  required,  it  was  plainly  only  because  he  could 
not  bear  the  idea  of  my  going  away  again!  No  wonder!  probably 
no  such  beatific  vision  as  that  of  a  real  live  woman,  in  a  silk  bonnet 
and  muslin  gown,  ever  irradiated  that  dingy,  dusty  law-chamber 
of  his,  and  sat  thereon  a  three-feet-high  stool,  since  he  had  held 
a  pen  behind  his  ear;  and  certainly  never  before  had  either  man  or 
woman,  in  that  place,  addressed  him  as  a  human  being,  not  as  a 
lawyer,  or  he  would  not  have  looked  at  me  so  struck  dumb  with 
admiration  when  I  did  so.  For  respectability's  sake,  I  said,  in 
taking  leave,  that  '  my  husband  was  out  of  town,  or  he  would  have 
come  himself.'  'Better  as  it  is,'  said  the  old  gentleman,  'do  you 
think  I  would  have  written  to  your  husband's  dictation  as  I  have 
done  to  yours? '  He  asked  me  if  your  name  were  John  or  William 
— plainly  he  had  lodged  an  angel  unawares. 

By  the  way,  that  other  angel '^  is  becoming  a  bore.  Charles 
Barton,  with  whom  I  dined  at  Sterling's  in  returning  from 
Pope's  Head  Alley,  told  me  that  he  had  been  making  quite  a 
sensation  in  Berlin,  and  been  invited  to  a  great  many  places,  on  the 
strength  of  the  'French  Revolution.'  He  (Charles  B.)  was  asked 
to  meet  him — that  is  'Thomas  Carlyle,  author  of  "The  French 
Revolution"'  at  the  Earl  of  Westmoreland's  'Is  he  here?'  said 
Charles;  '  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  him,  I  know  him  quite  well;' 
and  accordingly,  on  the  appointed  day,  he  '  almost  ran  into  the 
arms  of  the  announced  Thomas  Carlyle,  and  then  retreated  with 
consternation.'  It  was  so  far  good  that  he  had  an  opportunity  to 
disabuse  these  people  at  least  by  declaring  '  that  was  not  Thomas 
Carlyle  at  all ! '  But  is  it  not  a  shame  in  the  creature  to  encourage 
the  delusion,  and  let  himself  be  fgted  as  a  man  of  genius  when  he  is 
only  a  '  crack-brained  enthusiastic  '?  * 

I  have  awoke  at  four  every  morning  since  you  went  away;  and 
the  night  before  last  I  slept  just  half  an  hour  in  all ;  it  is  always  the 
effect  of  finding  one's  self  in  a  new  position.     When  the  workpeo- 


'  Pedant  carpenter  and  house  agent  here;  characterised  the  unthrift  of  the 
poor  by  that  adjective. 
"  '  T.  Carlyle,'  of  the  Irvingite  Church,  long  a  double-ganger  of  mine. 
3  My  father's  epithet  for  Mrs.  Carruthers,  long  ago. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  119 

pie  come  at  six,  I  get  up,  ■which  makes  a  prodigiously  long  day; 
but  I  do  not  weary,  having  so  many  m.echanictl  things  to  do.  Tliis 
morning  I  took,  or  rather  failed  to  take,  a  shower  bath ;  I  pulled 
with  concentrated  courage,  and  nothing  would  come;  determined 
not  to  be  quite  baffled,  however,  I  made  Helen  pour  a  pitcherful  of 
water  on  me  instead. 

Mazziui  came  this  forenoon,  for  the  first  time;  very  pale  and 
weak,  but  his  face  pretty  well  mended.  He  was  horribly  out  of 
spirits;  and  no  wonder.  They  have  brought  out  the  'British  and 
Foreign  Review'  without  his  article!!  a  most  untimely  contretemps 
for  him,  in  an  economical  point  of  view ;  and  besides  very  mortify- 
ing to  him  morally,  as  he  is  sure  it  is  '  merely  because  of  his  being 
a  foreigner  that  he  is  so  ill-used.'  I  was  stronglj^  advising  him  to — 
run  away,  to  hide  himself  from  all  people,  friends  and  creditors,  and 
disciples,  in  Switzerland  or  some  cheap,  quiet  place;  and  I  should 
not  wonder  if  he  did  some  such  thing  in  the  end — a  man  cannot 
live  '  in  a  state  of  crisis  '  (as  he  calls  it)  for  ever. 

I  do  not  see  how  I  am  to  get  to  the  Isle  of  Wight.  I  cannot 
leave  the  house  with  workpeople  coming  and  going;  and  Helen  de- 
clares, naturally,  that  without  me  she  could  not  stay  a  night  in  the 
house  for  the  whole  world.  But  I  daresay  I  am  quite  as  content 
here,  studious  of  household  goods,  as  I  should  be,  dragged  about 
to  look  at  picturesque  views,  at  the  Isle  of  Wight,  or  anywhere  else 
that  '  fool '  creturs  go  for  diversion; '  but  London,  be  it  e'er  so  hot, 
is  ne'er  too  hot  for  me ! '  To-day  we  have  had  the  beautif ullest  soft 
rain,  to  make  all  fresh  again;  and  on  the  whole,  the  weather  is 
charming;  and  I  never  go  into  the  dusty  streets  on  foot.  Good 
night. 

Saturday. — Well!  you  cannot  come  back  here  ]ust  now  at  all 
rates,  that  is  flat.  What  think  you  of  going  to  this ?  Here  in- 
deed you  would  not  '  come  out  strong'  under  the  existing  circum- 
stances. It  is  only  I  who  can  be  '  jolly  '  in  such  a  mess  of  noise, 
dirt,  and  wild  dismay!  I  said  to  the  lad  in  the  lobby  this  morn- 
ing, who  was  filling  the  whole  house  with  '  Love's  young  dream : ' 
'How  happy  you  must  feel,  that  can  sing  through  that  horrible 
noise  you  are  making! '  '  Yes,  thank  you,  ma'am,'  says  he,  'I  am 
happy  enough  so  far  as  I  knows;  but  I's  always  a-singing  anyhow! 
it  sounds  pleasant  to  sing  at  one's  work,  doesn't  it,  ma'am? '     '  Oh, 


1  Definition  of  poetry,  '  Pack  o'  lies,  that  fuil  craitures  write  for,'  &c. 
"  Mrs.  Siddons,  replying  to  her  host,  apologetic  for  his  salt  flsh:  '  Fish,  be  it. 
ne'er  so  salt,'  &c. 


120  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

very  pleasant,'  said  I,  quite  conquered  by  his  simplicity,  'but  it 
would  be  still  pleasanter  for  me,  at  least,  if  you  would  sing  a  song 
from  beginning  to  end,  instead  of  bits  here  and  there.'  'Thank 
you,  ma'am,'  says  he  again,  '  I  will  try!'    But  he  does  notsucceed. 

I  have  the  most  extraordinary  letter  from  *  *  *,  which  I  would 
send,  only  that  it  would  cost  twopence  of  itself.  He  writes  to  tell 
me  that  '  he  did  not  like  his  reception,'  that  '  often  as  he  came  and 
long  as  he  stayed,  I  treated  him  indeed  with  perfect  civility,  did 
not  yawn,  or  appear  to  be  suppressing  a  yawn;  but  1  seemed  to 
labour  under  a  continual  feeling  of  oppression!  and  to  be  thinking 
all  the  while  of  something  else! '  '  What  did  I  see  to  offend  me  in 
him?  ''he  asks  me  with  great  humility;  from  what  he  heard  of  pre- 
ferences and  saw  of  my  society,  he  was  inclined  to  suppose  that  what 
I  objected  to  in  him  must  be  the  want  of  that  first  great  requisite 
earnestness.  But  he  begged  to  assure  me,  &c.,  &c. — in  short,  that 
he  had  as  much  earnestness  '  as  he  could  bear  '  !  !  A  letter  from  a 
man  calling  himself  bishop  to  a  woman  whom  he  calls  infidel,  and 
pleading  guilty  to  her  of  want  of  earnestness — Bah!  I  wish  I  could 
snort  like  Cavaignac. 

There,  now  I  must  stop.  I  daresay  I  have  wearied  you.  God 
keep  you,  dear.     Be  quite  easy  about  me.  Ever  yours 

J.  C. 

LETTER  47. 

Cuttikins  (old  Scotch  word  for  spatterdashes,  '  cults '  signifying 

feet)  means*****,  now  became  'Bishop,'  so-called,'  'of ' 

(title  we  used  to  think  analogous  to  great  Mogul  of  London?), 
in  whose  episcopal  uniform,  unsuitable  to  the  little  bandy-legged 
man,  the  spats  were  a  prominent  item.  Indisputable  man  of  talent 
and  veracity,  though  not  of  much  devoutness,  of  considerable 
worldliness  rather,  and  quietly  composed  self-conceit — gone  now, 
ridiculously,  into  the  figure  of  'a  bandy-legged  black  beetle,' as 
was  thought  by  some. 

'  Old  Morrah,'  or  Murrough,  was  an  Irish  surgeon  of  much  sense 
and  merit,  well  accepted  by  the  Sterlings  and  us. 

The  policeman's  '  rattle '  was  a  thing  she  actually  had  on  her 
night-table  at  this  time. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Carmarthen. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  July  20, 1843. 

Dearest, — I  quite  fretted,  last  night,  at  your  having  been  cheated 

out  of  your  letter.     D'abord,  I  had  a  headache;  but  that  was  not 

the  reason,  for  it  was  not  an  even-down  headache,  under  which  no 

woman  can  write;  I  could  have  written,  better  or  worse;  but  I  put 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  121 

off,  thinking  always  I  should  get  into  '  a  freer  and  clearer  state ' '  be- 
fore the  post  left;  and,  as  the  copy-line  says,  'procrastination  is  the 
root  of  all  evil.'  From  two  till  four  I  had  visitors,  and  not  of  free 
and  easy  sort  who  could  be  told  to  go  away  and  return  at  a  more 
convenient  season;  first,  Mrs.  Prior*  and  her  companion  Miss 
Allan,  the  primmest  pair;  but  meaning  well,  and  making  me  a  lono- 
first  visit  of  ceremony,  in  testimony  of  Mrs.  Prior's  sense  of  my 
'goodness  to  her  poor  brother.' 

By  the  way,  I  really  believe  that  I  have  been  the  instrument, 
under  Providence,  of  saving  old  Sterling's  life.  I  told  you  how 
Dr.  Fergusson  seemed  to  me  to  be  ruining  him  with  recom- 
mendations  of  '  a  plentiful  use  of  porter,  wine,  and  other  stimu- 
lants to  restore  the  tone  of  his  nervous  system  (!)  Then  he  re- 
commended him  vapour  baths.  I  saw  him  after  his  first  bath, 
all  scarlet  as  a  lobster  and  pale  as  milk  by  turns,  and  shivering 
and  burning  by  turns.  I  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  about 
him  all  the  evening;  was  not  sure  whether  I  ought  not  to  write 
to  John;  he  looked  to  me  so  much  in  danger  of  some  sudden 
stroke.  Two  days  after,  he  came  and  told  me  he  had  been  tv,  ice 
cupped;  had  been  so  ill  that  he  had  himself  proposed  the  thing 
to  Fergusson,  who  approved.  Now  this  was  quite  enough  to 
show  what  sort  of  person  this  Fergusson  must  be,  feeding  a  man 
up  with  porter  and  wine,  and  cupping  him  at  the  same  time. 
I  told  Sterling  most  seriously  that  he  looked  to  me  in  a  very  criti- 
cal state;  and  that  if  he  did  not  go  home,  and  send  at  once  to  old 
Morrah,  who  was  no  quack,  and  had  never  flattered  his  tastes,  I 
would  not  answer  for  his  living  another  week.  He  was  furious  at 
my  suspicion  of  Fergusson ;  but  on  the  way  home  thought  better 
of  it,  and  did  send  for  Morrah;  who  immediately  proceeded  to 
scour  him  with  the  most  potent  medicines.  Morrah  called  for  me 
two  days  ago,  and  said  that  he  did  not  think  he  could  have  gone 
on  another  week  under  Fergusson's  system,  without  a  stroke  of 
apoplexy;  that  his  pulse  was  a  hundred  and  thirty  and  his  tongue 
quite  black.     Now  he  is  sleeping  well,  and  much  better  every  waj'. 

After  Mrs.  Prior,  came  the  Dundee  Stirlings,  and  the  sister  who 
is  going  to  India.  I  liked  tlie  big  bald  forehead  and  kind  ej'es  of 
Stirling  very  much  indeed.  He  looks  a  right  good  fellow.  Thoy 
are  to  return  to  Dundee  in  a  few  days.  But  the  most  unexpected, 
the  most  stroke-of  thunder  visitor  I  have  had  was  Cuttikinsl!  *    I 

>  Brother  John's  favourite  phrase.  *  Elder  Sterling's  sister. 

3  See  preface  to  this  letter. 
I.-6 


122  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

declare  when  Helen  told  me  he  was  below,  I  almost  sprung  the  rat- 
tle. I  had  not  answered  his  letter,  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
answer  it  at  all;  a  man  puts  one  in  quite  a  false  position  who  de- 
mands an  explanation  of  one's  coldness— coldness  which  belongs  to 
the  great  sphere  of  silence ;  all  speech  about  it  can  only  make  bad 

worse.     Was  he  come  there  because,  like ,  he  '  had  found  it  so 

easy  '  to  ask  me  for  an  answer?  "Was  the  small  chimera  gone  out 
of  his  wits?  When  I  came  down,  though  outwardly  quite  calm, 
even  indifferent,  I  was  in  a  serious  trouble.  He  put  me  speedily  at 
ease,  however,  by  telling  me  that  he  had  been  sent  for  express,  to 
see  his  aunt,  who  had  thought  herself  dying  (and  from  whom  he 
has  expectations);  she  was  now  recovering,  and  he  hoped  to  be  able 
to  go  back  in  a  few  days — I  hope  so,  too.  I  said  I  had  not  an- 
swered his  letter,  because  it  seemed  to  me  that  was  the  best  way  to 
counteract  the  indiscretion  of  his  having  written  it;  that,  'al- 
though, as  a  man  much  older  than  myself,  and  a  dignitary  of  the 
church,  he  ought  to  be  wiser  than  I,  I  could  not  help  telling  him 
that  I  had  learned  a  thing  or  two,  which  he  seemed  to  be  still  in 
ignorance  of — among  the  rest,  that  warmth  of  affection  could  not 
be  brouglit  about  by  force  of  logic'  He  said  '  I  was  right,  and  he 
did  not  design  to  bore  me  this  thme,'  and  so  we  parted  with  polite 
mutual  tolerance.  But  you  may  figure  the  shock  of  having  that  lit- 
tle Cuttikins  descend  from  the  blue  so  suddenly  when  I  was  rely- 
ing on  seeing  no  more  of  him  for  three  years. 

Only  think  what  human  wickekness  is  capable  of!  Some  devils 
broke  into  Pearson's  workshop  the  night  before  last,  and  stole  all 
the  men's  tools.  The  poor  creatures  are  running  about,  lost,  their 
occupation  quite  gone.  They  have  never  any  money  laid  by,  bo 
they  cannot  buy  new  tools  till  they  get  money,  and  they  cannot 
make  money  till  they  get  tools.  It  is  the  cruellest  of  thefts — a 
man's  tools.  Last  night  six  or  seven  pounds'  worth  of  glass  was 
cut  out  of  a  new  house — out  of  the  windows  that  is  to  say. 

Your  letter  is  just  come;  I  thank  you  for  never  neglecting  me. 
Yesterday  looked  sach  a  blank  day;  no  letters  came,  as  if  in  sym- 
pathy with  your  silence.  You  must  feel  something  of  a  self-con- 
stituted impostor  in  your  present  location.  I  have  a  good  many  lit- 
tle things  to  do,  and  an  engagement  with  Mrs.  Prior,  who  is  to 
come  to  take  me  a  drive  at  two  o'clock.  Oh,  if  you  could  mend 
me  some  pens !    Bless  you,  dearest.  Your  own 

J.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  123 

LETTER  48. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  Monday  night,  July  31, 1843. 

Dearest, — The  postman  presented  me  your  letter  to-night  in 
Chej^ne  Walk,  with  a  bow  extraordinary.  He  is  a  jewel  of  a  post- 
man; whenever  he  has  put  a  letter  from  you  into  the  box,  he  both 
knocks  and  rings,  that  not  a  moment  may  be  lost  in  taking  posses- 
sion of  it.  In  acknowledgment  whereof,  I  crossed  the  street  one 
day,  when  Cuttikius,  who  stayed  a  week  and  returned  twice,  was 
with  me,  and  at  that  moment  doing  the  impossible  to  be  entertain- 
ing, for  the  purpose  of  saluting  his  (the  postman's)  baby,  which  he 
was  carrying  out  for  an  airing.  The  rage  of  Cuttikins  at  this  inter- 
ruption was  considerable;  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he  could  have  eaten 
me  raw,  and  remarked  with  a  concentrated  spleen,  '  Well,  I  must  say, 
never  did  I  see  any  human  being  so  improved  in  amiability  as  you 
are.  Everybody  and  everything  seems  to  be  honoured  with  a  par- 
ticular affection  from  you.'  '  Everything,'  thought  I,  '  except  j'ou;' 
but  I  contented  myself  with  saying,  'Isn't  it  a  darling  baby?'  Poor 
Cuttikins,  his  aunt  did  not  die ;  so  he  is  gone  with  the  prospect  of 
— alas! — of  having  to  return  ere  long.  The  last  day  he  came,  John 
Sterling  exploded  him  in  a  way  that  would  have  done  your  heart 
good  to  see.  John  looked  at  me  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Does  he  bore 
you?'  and  I  gave  my  shoulders  a  little  shrug  in  the  affirmative; 
whereupon  John  jumped  to  his  feet  and  said  in  a  polite  undertone, 
as  audible,  however,  for  the  Bishop  as  for  me,  '  Well,  my  good 
friend,  if  you  cannot  keep  your  engagement  with  me,  I  must  go  by 
myself — I  am  tooiate  already.'  The  cool  assurance  of  this  speech 
was  inimitable,  for  I  had  no  engagement  in  the  world  with  him; 
but  the  bishop,  suspecting  nothing,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  was  off 
in  a  minute  with  apologies  for  having  detained  me. 

Well,  I  actually  accomplished  my  dinner  at  the  Kay  Shuttle- 
worths'.     Mrs.  was  the  only  lady  at  dinner;  old  Miss  Rogers 

and  a  3'oung  wei-fihAooking  '  person  with  her,  came  in  the  evening; 
it  was  a  very  locked-jaw  sort  of  business.  Little  Helps  was  there, 
but  even  I  could  not  animate  him;  he  looked  pale  and  as  if  he  had 
a  pain  in  his  stomach.  Milnes  Avas  there,  and  '  affable  '  enough, 
but  evidently  overcome  with  a  feeling  that  weighed  on  all  of  us — 
the  feeling  of  having  been  dropped  into  a  vacuum.     There  were 

>  Waterish,  an  emphatic  Scotch  word. 


124  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

various  other  men,  a  Sir  Charles  Lemon,  Cornewall  Lewis,  and 
some  other  half-dozen  insipidities,  whose  names  did  not  fix  them- 
selves in  my  memory.     Mrs. was  an  insupportable  bore ;  she 

has  surely  the  air  of  a  retired  unfortunate  female;  her  neck  and 
arms  were  naked,  as  if  she  had  never  eaten  of  the  Tree  of  the 
Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil !  She  reminded  me  forcibly  of  the 
Princess  Huncamunca,  as  I  once  saw  her  represented  in  a  barn. 
She  ate  and  drank  with  a  certain  voracity,  sneezed  once  during  the 
dinner,  just  like  a  hale  old  man,  '  and  altogether'  nothing  could  be 
more  ungraceful,  more  unfeminine  than  her  whole  bearing.  She 
talked  a  deal  about  America  and  her  poverty  with  exquisite  bad 
taste.     Indeed,  she  was  every  way  a  displeasing  spectacle  to  me. 

Mazzini's  visit  to  Lady  Baring  (as  he  calls  her)  went  off  wonder- 
fully well.  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  this  Lady  Baring  of  yours, 
and  his,  and  John  Mill's,  and  everybody's,  is  an  arch  coquette. 
She  seems  to  have  pi aj'ed  her  cards  with  Mazzini  really  too  well; 
she  talked  to  him  with  the  highest  commendations  of  George  Sand, 
expressed  the  utmost  longing  to  read  the  new  edition  of  'Lelia'; 
nay,  she  made  him  '  a  mysterious  signal  with  her  eyes,  having  first 
looked  two  or  three  times  towards  John  Mill  and  her  husband,' 

clearly  intimating  that  she  had  something  to  tell  him  about 

which  they  were  uot  to  hear;  and  when  she  could  not  make  liim 
understand,  she  '  shook  her  head  impatiently,  which  from  a  woman, 
especially  in  your  England,  was — what  shall  I  say? — confidential, 
upon  my  honour.'  I  think  it  was.  John  Mill  appeared  to  be  lov- 
ing her  very  much,  and  taking  great  pains  to  show  her  that  his 
opinions  were  right  ones.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  that  Mill 
considers  Robespierre  'the  greatest  man  that  ever  li^ed,'  his 
speeches  far  surpassing  Demosthenes'  ?  He  begins  to  be  too  absurd, 
that  John  Mill!  I  heard  Milnes  saying  at  the  Shuttleworths'  that 
'  Lord  Ashley  was  the  greatest  man  alive;  he  was  the  only  man 
that  Carlyle  praised  in  his  book.'  I  dare  say  he  knew  I  was  over- 
hearing him. 

lam  quite  rid  of  the  paint-smell  now;  but  I  have  the  white- 
washer  coming  again  to-morrow.  I  could  not  turn  up  the  low 
room  till  the  upstairs  one  was  in  some  sort  habitable  again,  and  all 
last  week,  nothing  could  be  got  on  with,  owing  to  Pearson's  ab- 
sence. It  is  surprising  how  much  easier  it  is  to  pull  down  things 
than  to  put  them  up  again. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  126 


LETTER  49. 


Welsh  Tour  done.     Leaving  Liverpool  for  Scotsbrig  I  get  this. 
— T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  Aug.  3, 1343. 

Dearest, — If  you  go  on  board  to-night,  this  letter  will  reach  j-ou 
no  sooner  than  if  written  to-morrow  and  addressed  to  Scotsbrig; 
but  if  you  do  not,  and  to-morrow  there  be  a  second  day  for  you 
without  any  news,  you  will  be  '  vaixed;'  and  on  no  account  must 
you  be  vaixed  if  one  can  possibly  help  it.  I  cannot,  however,  make 
much  of  writing  to-day;  for  it  is  thundering  and  raining  in  a  quite 
soul-confusing  manner;  that  in  the  first  place,  then,  in  the  second, 
I  have  a  headache.  Last  night  the  Stick-woman,  who  is  always 
showing  me  small  civilities,  brought  me  a  present  of  ass's  milk 
(God  knows  where  she  got  hold  of  the  ass  to  milk  it!),  and  she 
bade  Helen  tell  me  that  if  I  would  please  to  drink  it  to  my  supper, 
I  should  feel  great  benefit  in  the  morning.  1  drank  it,  more  for 
curiosity  than  for  any  superiority  I  could  taste  in  it  over  cow's 
milk;  and  awoke,  after  two  hours'  sleep,  with  such  a  headache,  and 
such  a  detestation  of  ass's  milk!  I  was  able  to  get  up  early  to  my 
breakfast;  but  am  not  recovered  yet,  nor  shall  be  till  I  have  had  a 
night's  sleep.  I  did  m}^self  no  good  by  cleaning  the  lamp  in  the 
morning.  It  had  ceased  to  act  some  time  ago,  and  was  beginning 
to  lie  heavy  on  m}'  conscience,  besides  that  light  is  one  of  the  things 
I  do  not  like  to  economise  in,  when  I  am  alone;  just  the  more  alone 
I  am,  the  more  light  I  need,  as  I  told  Darwin,  the  night  he  drank 
tea  with  me,  and,  when  the  lamp  was  brought  in,  remarked  that 
'  it  was  surely  far  too  much  light  for  a  single  woman  ' !  Darwin, 
by  the  way,  has  gone  out  of  sight  latterly;  it  is  a  fortnight,  I  am 
sure,  since  he  was  here;  he  talked  then  of  paying  a  visit  to  his 
brother  and  then  going  to  the  Mackinto.sh's. 

I  am  sitting  in  the  upstairs  room  now,  while  the  earthquake  is 
rumbling  beneath  it,  and  this  and  the  thunder  together  are  almost 
too  much  for  me.  They  have  washed  the  ceilings,  and  Helen  is 
now  washing  the  paint,  and  doing  the  impossible  to  clean  the  paper 
with  bread.  'Ah!  '  it  takes  such  a  quantity  of  labour,  for  a  man 
quite  inconceivable,  to  make  what  is  dirty  look  one  shade  more  near 
to  clean.  But  here  it  is  all  quite  clean,  and  so  pretty!  I  feel  like  a 
little  Queen  sitting  in  it,  so  far  as  what  Mazzini  calls  '  the  material ' 


126  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

is  concerned;  indeed,  I  suppose  no  Queen  ever  got  half  the  comfort 

out  of  a  nice  room;  Queens  being  born  to  them  as  the  sparks  fly 

upwards.     Tliere  are  still  some  finishing  strolies  to  be  given,  the 

boolv-shelves  all  to  be  put  up,  and  the  window  curtains;  and  a  deal 

of  needlework  has  to  go  to  the  last.     But  when  all  is  done,  it  will 

be  such  a  pleasure  to  receive  you  and  give  you  tea  in  your  new 

library!  when  you  have  exhausted  the  world  without. 

Thanks  for  your  constant  little  letters;  when  you  come  back,  I 

do  not  know  how  I  shall  learn  to  do  without  them,  they  have  come 

to  be  as  necessary  as  any  part  of  my  'daily  bread.'    But,  my  dear, 

I  must  stop,  you  see  that  my  head  is  bad,  and  that  I  am  making  it 

worse. 

Bless  you. 

Yours,  J.  C. 
LETTER  50. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Scoisbng. 

Pier  Hotel,  Ryde:'  Wednesday  morning,  Aug.  9,  1843. 

Dearest, — Here  I  actually  am,  and  so  far  as  has  yet  appeared,  '  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  honour  of  the  thing,'  I  had  better  have  stayed 
where  I  was.  The  journey  hither  was  not  pleasant  the  least  in  the 
world.  What  journey  ever  was  or  shall  be  pleasant  for  poor  rae? 
But  this  railway  seems  to  me  particularly  shaky,  and  then  the  steam- 
boating  from  Gosport,  though  it  had  not  time  to  make  me  sick 
— the  water,  moreover,  being  smooth  as  the  Thames — still  made 
me  as  perfectly  uncomfortable  as  need  be;  a  heavy  dew  was  fall- 
ing; one  could  not  see  many  yards  ahead;  everybody  on  board 
looked  peevish.     I  wished  myself  at  home  in  my  bed. 

We  reached  Ryde  at  eight  in  the  evening,  and,  the  second  hotel 
being  filled,  had  to  take  up  our  quarters  for  that  night  at  the  first, 
which  '  is  the  dearest  hotel  in  Europe,'  and  the  hotel  in  Europe,  so 
far  as  I  have  seen,  where  there  is  the  least  human  comfort.  I  had 
to  make  tea  from  an  urn  the  water  of  which  w^as  certainly  not  '  as 
hot  as  one  could  drink  it; '^  the  cream  was  blue  milk,  the  butter 
tasted  of  straw,  and  the  'cold  fowl '  was  a  lukewarm  one,  and  as 

1  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  gone  to  Ryde  with  old  Mr.  Sterling. 

2  Lady  mistress  and  guests  have  sat  down  to  tea;  butler  is  summoned  up  in 
haste:  'John,  John,  how  is  this?  Water  in  the  urn  not  boiUngl'  John  (at- 
tempts to  deny,  then  finding  he  cannot):  '  A  weel,  me'm;  I  kenna  whether  it's 
a'together  boiling,  A'm  sure  it's  better  than  you  can  drink  it! '  and  retires 
with  the  feeUng  of  a  maltreated  man. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  127 

tough  as  leather.  After  this  insalubrious  repast — which  the  Stima- 
bile,'  more  easily  pleased  than  I,  pronounced  to  be  ' infinitely  re- 
freshing, by  Jove!' — finding  that,  beyond  sounding  the  depths  of 
vacuum,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  that  night,  I  retired  to  my 
bed.  The  windows  looked  over  house-roofs  and  the  sea,  so  I  hoped 
it  would  be  quiet;  but,  alas,  there  was  a  dog  uttering  a  volley  of 
loud  barks,  about  once  in  the  five  minutes;  and  rousing  up  what 
seemed  to  be  a  whole  infinitude  of  dogs  in  the  distance!  Of  course, 
fevered  and  nervous  as  I  was  at  any  rate  from  the  journey,  I  could 
not  sleep  at  all;  I  do  not  mean  that  I  slept  ill,  but  I  have  absolutely 
never  been  asleep  at  all  the  whole  night!  So  you  may  fancy  the 
favourable  mood  I  am  in  towards  Ryde  this  morning!  I  feel  as  if  I 
would  not  pass  another  night  in  that  bed  for  a  hundred  pounds! 

Nor  shall  I  need.  Clark  ^  has  been  out  this  morning  to  seek  a 
lodging;  and  has  found  one,  he  says,  very  quiet,  quite  away  from 
the  town.  If  I  cannot  sleep  there,  I  will  return  to  my  own  red  bed 
as  fast  as  possible.  I  did  not  bind  myself  for  any  specified  time. 
To  Helen  I  said  I  should  most  likely  be  back  in  three  or  four  days ; 
but  in  my  own  private  mind,  I  thought  it  possible  I  might  make 
out  a  week.  It  was  best,  however,  to  let  her  expect  me  from  day 
to  day;  both  that  she  might  get  on  faster  and  that  she  might  suffer 
less  from  her  apprehension  of  thieves,  for  she  flattered  herself 
nobody  would  know  I  was  gone  before  I  should  be  returned.  I 
left  Elizabeth  with  her,  with  plenty  of  needlework  to  do;  alone, 
she  would  have  gone  out  of  her  senses  altogether,  and  most  proba- 
bly succeeded  in  getting  the  house  robbed. 

And  now  let  me  tell  you  something  which  you  will  perhaps 
think  questionable,  a  piece  of  Hero-Worship  that  I  have  been 
after.  My  youthful  enthusiasm,  as  John  Sterling  calls  it,  is  not 
extinct  then,  as  I  had  supposed;  but  must  certainly  be  immortal! 
Only  think  of  its  blazing  up  for  Father  Mathew!  You  know  I 
fiave  always  had  the  greatest  reverence  for  that  priest ;  and  when  I 
iieard  he  was  in  London,  attainable  to  me,  I  felt  that  I  must  see 
him,  shake  him  by  the  hand,  and  tell  him  I  loved  him  consider- 
ably! I  was  expressing  my  v^^ish  to  see  him,  to  Robertson,  the 
night  he  brought  the  Ballad  Collector  ;3  and  he  told  me  it  could  be 
gratified  quite  easily.  Mrs.  Hall  had  offered  him  a  note  of  intro- 
duction to  Father  Mathew,  and  she  would  be  pleased  to  include 


>  See  note  p.  21.  «  The  valet. 

'  Peter  Buchan,  poor  phantasm  1 


128  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

my  name  in  it.  '  Fix  my  time,  tlien.'  '  He  was  administering  the 
pledge  all  day  long  in  the  Commercial  Road.'  I  fixed  next  evening. 
Robertson,  accordingly,  called  for  me  at  five,  and  we  rumbled  ofi 
in  omnibus,  all  the  way  to  Mile  End,  that  hitherto  for  me  unimagi- 
nable goal !  Then  there  was  still  a  good  way  to  walk ;  the  place, 
the  'new  lodging,'  Avas  a  large  piece  of  waste  ground,  boarded  off 
from  the  Commercial  Road,  for  a  Catholic  cemetery.  I  found  '  my 
youthful  enthusiasm '  rising  higher  and  higher  as  I  got  on  the 
ground,  and  saw  the  thousands  of  people  all  hushed  into  awful 
silence,  with  not  a  single  exception  that  I  saw — the  only  religious 
meeting  I  ever  saw  in  cockneyland  which  had  not  plenty  of  scof- 
fers hanging  on  its  outskirts.  The  crowd  was  all  in  front  of  a 
narrow  scaffolding,  from  which  an  American  captain  was  then 
haranguing  it;  and  Father  Mathew  stood  beside  him,  so  good  and 
simple-looking!  Of  course,  we  could  not  push  our  way  to  the 
front  of  the  scaffold,  where  steps  led  up  to  it;  so  we  went  to  one 
end,  where  there  were  no  steps  or  other  visible  means  of  access, 
and  handed  up  our  letter  of  introduction  to  a  policeman;  he  took 
it  and  returned  presently,  saying  that  Father  Mathew  was  coming. 
And  he  came;  and  reached  down  his  hand  to  me,  and  I  grasped  it; 
but  the  boards  were  higher  than  my  head,  and  it  seemed  our  com- 
nuinication  must  stop  there.  But  I  have  told  you  that  I  was  in  a 
moment  of  enthusiasm;  I  felt  the  need  of  getting  closer  to  that 
good  man.  I  saw  a  bit  of  rope  hanging,  in  the  form  of  a  festoon, 
from  the  end  of  the  boards;  I  put  my  foot  on  it;  held  still  by  Fa- 
ther Mathew's  hand;  seized  the  end  of  the  boards  with  the  other; 
and,  in  some,  to  myself  (up  to  this  moment),  incomprehensible 
waj^  flung  myself  horizontally  on  to  the  scaffolding  at  Father  Mat- 
hew's feet!  He  uttered  a  scream,  for  he  thought  (I  suppose)  I 
must  fall  back;  but  not  at  all;  I  jumped  to  my  feet,  shook  hands 
with  him  and  said — what?  '  God  only  knows.'  He  made  me  sit 
down  on  the  onlj'  chair  a  moment;  then  took  me  by  the  hand  as  if 
I  had  been  a  little  girl,  and  led  me  to  the  front  of  the  scaffold,  to 
see  him  administer  the  pledge.  From  a  hundred  to  two  hundred 
took  it;  and  all  the  tragedies  and  theatrical  representations  I  ever 
saw,  melted  into  one,  could  not  have  given  me  such  emotion  as 
that  scene  did.  There  were  faces  both  of  men  and  women  that 
will  haunt  me  while  I  live;  faces  exhibiting  such  concentrated 
wretchedness,  making,  you  would  have  said,  its  last  deadly  strug- 
gle with  the  powers  of  darkness.  There  was  one  man,  in  particu- 
lar, with  a  baby  in  his  arms;  and  a  young  girl  that  seemed  of  the 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  129 

'  unfortunate '  sort,  that  gave  me  an  insight  into  the  lot  of  humanity 
that  I  still  wanted.  And  in  the  face  of  Father  Mathew,  when  one 
looked  from  them  to  him,  the  mercy  of  Heaven  seemed  to  be  laid 
bare.  Of  course  I  cried ;  but  I  longed  to  lay  my  head  down  on  the 
good  man's  shoulder  and  take  a  hearty  cry  there  before  the  whole 
multitude!  He  said  to  me  one  such  nice  thing.  'I  dare  not  be 
absent  for  an  hour,'  he  said;  'I  think  always  if  some  dreadful 
drunkard  were  to  come,  and  me  away,  he  might  never  muster  de- 
termination perhaps  to  come  again  in  all  his  life;  and  there  would 
be  a  man  lost ! ' 

I  was  turning  sick,  and  needed  to  get  out  of  the  thing,  but,  in 
the  act  of  leaving  him — never  to  see  him  again  through  all  time, 
most  probably — feeling  him  to  be  the  very  best  man  of  modern 
times  (you  excepted),  I  had  another  movement  of  youthful  enthu- 
siasm which  you  will  hold  up  your  hands  and  eyes  at.  Did  I  take 
the  pledge  then?  No;  but  I  would,  though,  if  I  had  not  feared  it 
would  be  put  in  the  newspapers!  No,  not  that;  but  I  drew  him 
aside,  having  considered  if  I  had  any  ring  on,  any  handkerchief, 
anything  that  I  could  leave  with  him  in  remembrance  of  me,  and 
having  bethought  me  of  a  pretty  memorandum-book  in  my  reti- 
cule, I  drew  him  aside  and  put  it  in  his  hand,  and  bade  him  keep 
it  for  my  sake;  and  asked  him  to  give  me  one  of  his  medals  to 
keep  for  his!  And  all  this  in  tears  and  in  the  utmost  agitation! 
Had  you  any  idea  that  your  wife  was  still  such  a  fool!  I  am  sure 
I  had  not.  The  Father  got  through  the  thing  admirably.  He 
seemed  to  understand  what  it  all  meant  quite  well,  inarticulate 
though  I  was.  He  would  not  give  me  a  common  medal,  but  took  a 
little  silver  one  from  the  neck  of  a  young  man  who  had  just  taken 
the  pledge  for  example's  sake,  telling  him  he  would  get  him  another 
presently,  and  then  laid  the  medal  into  my  hand  with  a  solemn 
blessing.  I  could  not  speak  for  excitement  all  the  way  home. 
When  I  went  to  bed  I  could  not  sleep;  the  pale  faces  I  had  seen 
haunted  me,  and  Father  Mathew's  smile;  and  even  next  morning, 
I  could  not  anyhow  subside  into  my  normal  state,  until  I  had  sat 
down  and  written  Father  Mathew  a  long  letter — accompanying  it 
with  your  '  Past  and  Present ! '  Now,  dear,  if  you  are  ready  to 
beat  me  for  a  distracted  Gomeril '  I  cannot  help  it.  All  that  it  was 
put  into  my  heart  to  do,  Icli  konnte  nicht  anders. 

When  you  write,  just  address  to  Cheyne  How.  I  cannot  engage 
for  myself  being  here  twenty-four  hours  longer;  it  will  depend  on 

>  Scotch  for  good-natured  fool. 


130  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

howl  sleep  to-night;  and  also  a  little  on  when  I  find  Elizabeth 
Mudie  '  will  be  needed  in  Manchester.     I  must  be  back  in  time  to 
get  her  clothes  gathered  together. 
Bless  you  always.    Love  to  them  all. 

Your  J.  C. 

I  began  this  in  the  hotel;  but  it  has  been  finished  in  our  lodging, 
which  looks  quiet  and  comfortable  so  far. 

LETTER  51. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq. ,  at  Scotsbng. 

Ryde:  Friday,  Aug.  11, 1843. 

Dearest, — The  sky-rocket  will  be  off  to-morrow  morning,  on  the 
strength  of  its  own  explosiveness;  the  red-hot  poker  may  stay  till 
it  has  burnt  a  hole  in  its  box,  if  it  like!  'Oh!  what  had  I  to  do 
for  to  travel?  I  was  well,  I  would  be  better,  and  I  am  here! '  To 
be  sure,  Ryde  is  a  place  well  worth  having  seen,  and  knowing 
about  with  a  view  to  future  needs ;  but  what  I  get  out  of  it  for  the 
time  being,  moi,  is  sleeplessness,  indigestion,  and  incipient  despair. 

I  finished  my  letter  to  you  the  first  thing  I  did  on  taking  posses- 
sion of  the  lodging.  It  (the  lodging)  looked  passable  enough,  so 
far;  a  small  but  neat  sitting-room,  with  two  bed-rooms,  of  which 
the  roomiest  was  assigned  to  me — plainly  in  the  expectation  that  I 
should  modestly  prefer  the  inferior  one.  But  not  at  all;  my  mo- 
desty remained  perfectly  passive; — for  I  knew  that  he  could  have 
had  two  bed-rooms  equally  good  for  two  or  three  shillings  a  week 
more;  and  if  he  chose  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  comfort  for  so  paltry 
a  saving,  I  was  resolved  it  should  be  of  his  own  comfort,  not 
mine. 

I  went  to  bed  in  fear  and  trembling.  I  do  think  another 
such  night  as  the  preceding  would  have  thrown  me  into  brain  fever; 
but  I  selpt,  mercifully,  not  well,  but  some.  On  looking,  however, 
at  my  fair  hand  in  the  morning,  as  it  lay  outside  the  bed-clothes,  I 
perceived  it  to  be  all — 'what  shall  I  say?'  'elevated  into  inequal- 
ities,'' '  significant  of  much!'    Not  a  doubt  of  it,  I  had  fallen  among 


'  One  of  two  girls  in  difficult  circumstances,  for  whom,  with  her  sister 
Juliet,  Mrs.  Cariyle  was  endeavouring  to  provide  (see  p.  ISIV — J.  A.  F. 

^  Euphemism  of  a  certain  rustic  goose  (in  our  Craigenputtock  time)  to  ex- 
press the  condition  of  his  brow  bitten  by  midges.  The  preceding  locution  is 
established  Mazzinian ;  the  following  clearly  mine. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  I3i 

bugs!  My  pretty  neck  too,  especially  the  part  of  it  Babbie  used  to 
like  to  kiss,  was  all  bitten  infamously;  and  I  felt  myself  a  degraded 
Goody,  as  well  as  a  very  unfortunate  one.  As  I  sat,  exceedingly  low, 
at  something  which,  in  the  language  of  flattery,  we  called  break- 
fast, Clark  brought  me  your  letter  and  one  from  Babbie  and  three 
from  Geraldine  (who  always  outdoes  you  all);  administering  com- 
fort each  after  a  sort,  but  Geraldine's  most,  for  they  offered  me  the 
handsomest  pretext  for  returning  home  suddenly.  One  of  her  let- 
ters was  to  announce  the  safe  arrival  of  Juliet  Mudie,  whom  she 
expressed  herself  outrageously  pleased  with ;  the  other  two  were  to 
say  that  I  must  get  Elizabeth  off  immediately,  as  the  lady  could  not 
wait;  and  in  case  of  missing  me,  she  had  written  to  this  effect  to 
Chelsea  and  Ryde  at  the  same  time.  I  was  not  to  mind  clothing 
her;  all  that  could  be  done  thei'e;  if  I  was  absent,  I  must  employ 
Mazzini  or  somebody  to  see  her  off.  But  I  was  too  glad  of  the  ex- 
cuse, to  dream  of  employing  anybody;  besides,  one  always  does 
one's  own  business  best  oneself;  should  she  miss  the  thing,  through 
any  interference  from  the  mother  or  other  hindrance  which  my 
presence  could  have  obviated,  who  knows  but  it  might  be  the  losing 
of  her  whole  chances  in  life!  Sol  wrote  to  her  instantly  to  go 
home  and  take  leave  of  her  mother  on  receiving  my  letter  (to  day), 
and  make  one  or  two  small  preparations,  which  were  indispensable 
unless  she  should  go  among  strangers  like  a  beggar — which,  of 
course,  poor  thing,  being  very  handsome  or  whether  or  no,  she 
would  not  like  to  do ;  and  that  I  would  be  there  to-morrow,  to  take 
her  to  the  railway  to-morrow  evening.  Meanwhile  I  am  getting 
together  one  decent  suit  of  clothes  for  her  in  the  Isle  of  Wight. 
That  is  what  I  call  taking  time  by  the  middle. 

To-day  I  have  another  letter  from  you,  as  a  sort  of  marmalade  to 
one's  bad  bread  and  tea-urn  skimmed-milk  tea.  Do  you  know,  I 
pity  this  poor  old  man.  The  notion  of  saving  seems  to  be  growing 
into  a  disease  with  him;  and  he  has  still  a  sufficient  natural  sense 
of  what  looks  generous,  and  even  magnificent,  to  make  it  a  very 
painful  disease.  He  is  really  pitiable  in  every  way;  and  if  it  were 
possible  for  me  to  stay  with  him,  I  would  out  of  sheer  cliarity.  He 
is  incapable  of  applying  his  mind  to  reading  or  writing  or  any  earthly 
thing.  And  he  cannot  move  about  to  '  distract  himself '  as  he  used 
to  do,  h6  suffers  bo  much  from  incessant  pain  in  one  of  his  ihighs. 
Ho  cannot  even  talk,  for  every  minute  needing  to  roar  out,  '  This  is 
torture,  by  Jove!'  'My  God,  this  is  agony,'  &c.  &c.  He  always 
will  go  out  to  walk,  and  then  for  hours  after  he  pays  the  penalty  of  it. 


133  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

I  went  this  morning  (while  a  man  was  taking  down  my  bedstead 
to  look  for  the  bugs,  which  were  worse  last  night,  of  course,  having 
found  what  a  rare  creature  they  had  got  to  eat),  and  investigated 
another  lodging,  which  Clark  had  taken  for  us,  and  Sterling  gave 
it  up,  for  no  other  reason  one  could  imagine,  than  just  because 
Clark  had  taken  it,  and  he  likes  to  do  everything  over  again  him- 
self. I  thought  it  would  be  good  to  know  something  about  lodg- 
ings here,  in  case  you  might  like  to  try  it  next  time. 

Ryde  is  certainly  far  the  most  beautiful  sea-bathing  place  I  ever 
saw;  and  seems  to  combine  the  conveniences  and  civilisation  of 
town  with  the  purity  and  quiet  of  the  country  in  a  rather  success- 
ful manner.  The  lodging  I  looked  at  was  quite  at  the  outside  of 
the  town:  a  sitting-room  and  two  bed-rooms,  in  the  house  of  a 
single  lady;  the  sitting-room  beautiful,  the  bed-rooms  small,  but,  in 
compensation,  the  beds  very  large;  good  furniture,  and,  I  should 
expect,  good  attendance,  '  sitting  '  in  a  beautiful  garden,  villa-wise, 
rejoicing  in  the  characteristic  name  of  Flora  Cottage;  and  within 
two  minutes'  walk  of  the  sea  and  romantic-looking  bushy  expanses; 
a  very  superior  place  to  Newby,  and  the  cost  just  the  same — two 
guineas  a  week.  God  knows  whether  there  be  bugs  in  it.  There 
is  no  noise;  for  the  lady  remarked  to  me,  par  hasard,  that  she 
sometimes  felt  frightened  in  lying  awake  at  night,  it  was  so  still ; 
nothing  to  be  heard  but  the  murmuring  of  the  sea.  We  might  '  put 
this  in  our  pipe'  for  next  year;  and  I  shall  look  about  farther  dur- 
ing this  my  last  day.  I  wonder  John  never  recommended  Wight 
to  you  with  any  emphasis;  it  must  surely  have  some  drawback 
which  I  have  not  discovered;  for  it  seems  to  me  a  place  that  would 
suit  even  you.  And  now,  dear,  if  you  think  my  letter  hardly  worth 
the  reading,  remember  that  I  am  all  bug-bittea  and  bedevilled  and 

out  of  my  latitude, 

Your  own 

J.  C. 

Kind  remembrances  to  all;  a  kiss  to  my  kind,  good  Jamie. 

[We  never  went  to  Ryde;  we  once  tried  Brighton,  once  inspected 
Bournemouth,  &c.,  but  the  very  noises,  in  all  these  pretty  sea- 
places,  denoted  flat  impossibility,  especially  to  one  of  us.  How 
heavenly,  salutary,  pure  is  silence;  how  unattainable  in  the  mad 
England  that  now  is!— T.  C] 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  133 

LETTER  52. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Scotsbng. 

Chelsea :  Sunday,  Aug.  13, 1843. 

Dearest, — I  have  not  for  a  long  time  enjoyed  a  more  triumphant 
moment  than  in  'descending''  from  the  railway  yesterday  at  Vaux- 
hall,  and  calling  a  porter  to  carry  my  small  trunk  and  dressing  box 
(of  course)  to  a  Chelsea  steamer!  To  be  sure,  I  looked  (and  felt)  as 
if  just  returning  from  the  Thirty-years'  "War.  Sleepless,  bug-bitten, 
bedusted  and  bedevilled,  I  was  hardly  recognisable  for  the  same 
trim  little  Goody  who  had  left  that  spot  only  four  days  before;  but 
still  I  was  returning  loWi  my  shield,  not  on  it.  A  few  minutes 
more,  and  I  should  be  purified  to  the  shift,  to  the  very  skin — should 
have  absolutelj'  bathed  myself  with  eau  de  Cologne — should  have 
some  mutton-broth  set  before  me  (I  had  written  from  Ryde  to  be- 
speak it !),  and  a  silver  spoon  to  eat  it  with  (these  four  days  had 
taught  me  to  appreciate  mj'  luxuries),  and  prospect  of  my  own  red 
bed  at  night!  That  of  itself  was  enough  to  make  me  the  most 
thankful  woman  in  Chelsea! 

Helen  screamed  with  joy  when  she  saw  me  (fori  was  come  about 
an  hour  sooner  than  I  was  expected),  and  then  seized  me  round  the 
neck  and  kissed  me  from  ear  to  ear.  Then  came  Bessie  Mudie, 
with  her  head  quite  turned.  She  could  do  nothing  iu  the  world 
but  laugh  for  joy,  over  her  own  prospects  so  suddenly  brightened 
for  her;  and  from  consciousness  of  her  improved  appearance,  in  a 
pair  of  staj'S  and  a  gown  and  petticoat  which  she  had  got  for  her- 
self here  by  my  directions.  And  when  I  showed  her  the  shawl  and 
other  little  things  I  had  fetched  her  from  Ryde,  she  laughed  still 
more,  and  her  face  grew  so  very  red  that  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  burst  a  blood-vessel.  She  had  been  home,  and  had  taken  leave 
of  her  mother — no  hindrance  there  whatever,  but  w'as  extremely 
thankful.  So  all  was  in  readiness  for  taking  her  to  the  railway 
that  evening  according  to  programme. 

Mazzini  called  just  when  I  had  finished  my  dinner  to  inquire  if 
there  had  been  any  news  from  me;  and  was  astonished  to  find  my- 
self; still  more  astonished  at  the  extent  to  which  I  had  managed  to 
ruin  myself  in  so  short  a  time:  I  looked,  he  said,  '  strange,  upon  my 
honor!— most  like,'  if  he  might  be  allowed  to  say  it,  '  to  Lady  Mac- 

»  Note,  p.  92.  -  - 


134  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

beth  in  the  sleeping  scene! '  No  wonder!  Four  such  nights  might 
have  made  a  somnambulant  of  a  much  stronger  woman  than  me, 
povei-iiia. 

At  half  after  seven  I  started  with  Bessie  for  Euston  Square;  com- 
mitted her  to  the  care  of  a  very  fat  benevolent-looking  old  man,  who 
was  going  all  the  way;  pinned  her  letter  for  Geraldine  to  her  stays; 
kissed  the  poor  young  creature,  and  gave  her  my  blessing;  came 
back  wondering  whether  these  two  girls  that  I  had  launched  into 
the  world  would  live  to  thank  me  for  it,  or  not  rather  wish  that  I 
had  tied  a  stone  about  each  of  their  necks  and  launched  them  into 
the  Thames!  Impossible  to  predict!  So  I  went  to  bed  and  was 
asleep  in  two  minutes! 

After  some  hours  of  the  deadest  sleep  I  ever  slept  on  earth,  I  was 
wakened  with  pain  in  my  head ;  but  where  I  was  I  could  not  possi- 
sibly  make  out.  I  sat  up  in  the  middle  of  my  bed,  to  ascertain  my 
locality,  and  there  '  I  happened '  ■  the  oddest  mystification  you  can 
fancy:  I  actually  lost  myself  in  my  bed!  could  not  find  the  right 
way  of  lying  down  again !  I  felt  about  for  pillows,  none  were  find- 
able !  and  I  could  not  get  the  clothes  spread  upon  me  again !  They 
seemed  to  be  fixed  down.  At  last,  still  groping,  with  my  hand,  I 
felt  the  footboard  at  my  head!  I  had  lain  down  'with  my  head 
where  my  feet  should  be ; '  and  it  was  a  puzzling  business  to  rectify 
my  position!  I  went  to  sleep  again,  and  rose  at  half  after  eight; 
and  took  my  coffee  and  good  bread  with  such  relish!  Oh,  it  was 
worth  while  to  have  spent  four  days  in  parsimony;  to  have  been 
bitten  with  bugs ;  to  have  been  irritated  with  fuss  and  humbug,  and 
last  of  all  to  have  been  done  out  of  my  travelling  expenses  back!  it 
was  worth  while  to  have  had  all  this  botheration  to  refresh  my  sense 
of  all  my  mercies.  Everything  is  comparative  'here  down;'  this 
morning  I  need  no  other  Paradise  than  what  I  have:  cleanness  (not 
of  teeth),  modest  comfort,  silence,  independence  (that  is  to  say,  de- 
pendence on  no  other  but  one's  own  husband).  Yes,  I  need  to  be 
well  of  my  headache,  over  and  above;  but  that  also  will  come, with 
more  sleep. 

I  found  on  my  return  three  book-parcels  and  your  last  letter: 
parcel  first,  John  Sterling's  'Strafford  '  for  myself;  you  will  see  a 
review  of  it  in  to  day's  'Examiner,'  which  will  make  him  desper- 
ately angry  (Really  Fuzz,-  that  brother  of  ours,  improves  by  keep- 

*  Maid  at  Ampton  Street: 'This  morning,  m'em,  I've  'appened  a  misfor- 
tune, m'em '  (viz.  broken  something). 

•  Foreter,  then  editor,  or  critic,  of  the  Examiner. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  135 

ing  sensible  company);  second,  Varnliagen's  three  volumes  from 
Lockhart,  with  a  note  which  I  enclose;  third,  a  large  showy  paper 
book  in  three  volumes,  entitled  'The  English  Universities,'  Hunter 
and  Newman,  '  With  Mr.  James  Hey  wood's  compliments  '  on  the 
the  first  page.  At  night  another  parcel  came  from  Maurice,  '  Ar- 
nold's Lectures '  returned,  and  Strauss  (which  latter  I  purpose  read- 
ing— I?).  I  brouglit  with  me  from  Ryde  a  volume  of  plays  by  one 
Kleist  (did  you  ever  hear  of  him?)  which  Sterling  greatly  recom- 
mends.    The  tragedian  liimself  had  the  most  tragic  end.' 

I  did  not  forget  about  the  name  of  Varnhagen's  pamphlet;  but  at 
the  time  you  asked  it  of  me  it  was  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  sofa, 
with  the  other  books  of  the  low  room  and  Pelion  on  Ossa  on  the  top 
of  it;  togetatitAvould  have  cost  me  an  hour's  hard  work.  The  name, 
now  it  is  restored  to  the  upper  world,  is  Leitfaden  zur  Nordischen 
Alterthumskunde. 

I  have  a  negotiation  going  on  about  a  place  for  Miss  Bolte;  "•'  but 
the  lady  is  on  the  Continent,  and  it  cannot  be  speedily  brought  to  an 
alternative.  Meanwhile  the  poor  girl  is  gone  to  some  friend  in  the 
country,  for  a  month.  I  am  very  sorry  indeed  for  poor  Isabella. 
Give  her  my  kind  remembrances — my  sympathy,  if  it  could  but  do 
anything  for  her. 

Are  you — or  rather  would  it  be  very  disagreeable  for  you — to  go 
to  Thornhill,  and  see  the  Russells,  and  Margaret,  and  old  Mary?  If 
you  could  without  finding  it  irksome,  I  should  like.  Oh,  to  think 
of  your  going  to  Thornhill  to  see  only  the  Russells!  ^  Oh,  my 
mother,  my  own  mother. 

Monday,  Aug.  14.— I  had  to  give  up  writing  yesterday,  my  head 
was  so  woefully  bad.  But  a  dinner  of  roast  mutton,  with  a  tumb- 
ler of  white-wine  negus,  made  me  a  more  effectual  woman  again; 
you  see  I  am  taking  care  of  myself  with  a  vengeance!  But  I  '  con- 
sider it  my  duty '  to  get  myself  made  well  again — and  to  tell  you 
the  truth  I  was  starved  at  Ryde,  as  well  as  bug-bitten. 

In  the  evening  I  had  Miss  Bolte  till  after  ten  (I  thought  she  had 
gone  to  the  country,  but  she  goes  to-day),  she  is  really  a  fine  manly 

»  Killed  himself. 

» This  was  a  bustling,  shifty  little  German  governess,  who,  in  few  years, 
managed  to  pick  up  some  modicum  of  money  here,  and  then  retired  with  It  to 
Dresden,  wholly  devoting  herself  to  'literature.' 

'  I  went  duly,  sat  in  poor  old  Mary  Mills's  cottage,  one  morning  early,  by 
the  side  of  her  turf -pile,  &c.  She  had  been  on  pilgrimage  to  Crawford  church- 
yard, found  the  grave;  '  It  wds  a'  bonnie  yonder,  vera  boiiuie,'  said  she,  in  her 
old  broken  pious  tone.    I  never  saw  her  again. 


136  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

little  creature,  with  a  deal  of  excellent  sense,  and  not  without  plenty 
of  German  enthusiasm,  for  all  so  humdrum  as  she  looks. 

This  morning  I  got  up  immensely  better,  having  had  another  good 
sleep;  and,  in  token  of  my  thankfulness  to  Providence,  I  fell  im- 
mediately to  glazing  and  painting  with  my  own  hands  (not  to  ruiq 
you  altogether).  It  is  now  just  on  post-time.  I  have  had  your  let- 
ter, for  consolation  in  my  messy  job,  and  I  must  send  this  off; 
trusting  that  you  found  other  two  letters  from  me  waiting  you  on 
coming  back;  and  then  return  to  finish  my  painting.     Pray  forme. 

Ever  your  unfortunate, 

Goody. 

LETTER  53. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  Aug.  17, 1843. 

I  write  to-day,  dearest,  without  any  faculty  for  writing;  merely 
to  keep  your  mind  easy,  by  telling  you  I  have  a  headache;  if  I  said 
nothing  at  all,  you  might  fancy  I  had  something  worse.  'Ah' — I 
could  not  expect  to  get  off  from  that  vile  Wight  business  so  cheaply 
as  with  one  headache  or  even  two. 

Since  I  wrote  last,  I  have  had  a  sad  day  in  bed,  another  only  a, 
little  less  sad  out  of  it;  besides  the  pain  in  my  head,  such  pains  in 
my  limbs  that  I  could  hardly  rise  or  sit  down  Avilhout  screaming, 
I  have  taken  one  blue  pill  and  mean  to  take  another.  I  am  better 
to-day,  though  still  in  a  state  for  which  stooping  over  paper  and 
making  the  slightest  approach  to  thinking  is  very  bad.  So  'you 
must  just  excuse  us  the  day.'  God  bless  you.  I  hope  your  '  fever- 
ish cold '  is  driven  off. 

Elizabeth  was  seeking  your  address  for  the  Kirkcaldy  people, who 
iOiean  to  send  you  an  invitation  I  suppose.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
your  best  way  of  coming  back. 

Affectionate  regards  to  them  all. 

Your    J.  C. 

LETTER  54. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Friday  morning,  Aug.  18,  1843. 
Dearest, — If  you  expect  a  spirited  letter  from  me  to-day,  I  grieve 
that  you  will  be  disappointed.     I  am  not  mended  yet:  only  mend.- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  13T 

ing,  and  that  present  participle  (to  use  Helen's  favourite  word  for 
the  weather)  is  extremely  'dilatory.'  The  pains  in  my  limbs  are 
gone,however,  leaving  only  weakness;  and  my  head  aches  now  with 
'  a  certain'  moderation!  still  enough  to  spoil  all  one's  enjoyment  of 
life — if  there  be  any  such  thing  for  some  of  us — and,  what  is  more 
to  the  purpose,  enough  to  interfere  with  one's  'did  intends,'  which 
in  my  case  grow  always  the  longer  the  more  manifold  and  com- 
plicated. 

Darwin  came  yesterday  after  my  dinner-time  (I  had  dined  at 
three),  and  remarked,  in  the  course  of  some  speculative  discourse, 
that  I  '  looked  as  if  I  needed  to  go  to  Gunter's  and  have  an 
ice!'  Do  j'ou  comprehend  what  sort  of  look  that  can  be?  Cer- 
tainly he  was  right,  for  driving  to  Gunter's  and  having  an  ice  re- 
vived me  considerably;  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  felt  up  to  cross- 
ing the  threshold,  since  I  took  Bessie  Mudie  to  the  railway  the  same 
evening  I  returned  from  Ryde.  Darwin  was  very  clever  yesterday; 
he  remarked,  apropos  of  a  pamphlet  of  Maurice's  (wliich  by  the  way 
is  come  for  you),  entitled,  '  A  Letter  to  Lord  Ashlej'  respecting  a 
certain  proposed  measure  for  stifiiug  the  expression  of  opinion  in 
the  University  of  Oxford,'  that  pamphlets  were  for  some  men  just 
what  a  fit  of  the  gout  was  for  others— they  cleared  the  system,  so 
that  they  could  go  on  again  pretty  comfortably  for  a  while.  He 
told  me  also  a  curious  conversation  amongst  three  grooms,  at  which 
Wrightson  had  assisted  the  day  before  in  a  railway  carriage,  clearly 
indicating  to  what  an  alarming  extent  the  schoolmaster  is  abroad! 
Groom  the  first  took  a  pamphlet  from  his  pocket,  saying  he  had 
bought  it  two  days  ago  and  never  found  a  minute  to  read  it.  Groom 
the  second  inquired  the  subject.  First  groom:  'Oh,  a  hit  at  the 
Puseyists.'  Second  groom:  'The  Puseyists?  Ha,  they  are  for 
bringing  us  back  to  the  times  when  people  burnt  one  another! '  First 
groom  (tapping  second  groom  on  the  shoulder  with  the  pamphlet): 
'  Charity,  my  brother,  charity! '  Third  groom:  '  Well,  I  cannot  say 
about  the  Puseyists;  but  my  opinion  is  that  what  we  need  is  more 
Christianity  and  less  religionism!'  Now  Wrightson  swears  that 
every  word  of  this  is  literally  as  the  men  spoke  it— and  certainly 
Wrightson  could  not  invent  it. 

I  had  a  long  letter  from  old  Sterling,  which  stupidly  I  flung  into 
the  fire  in  a  rage  (the  fire?  Yes,  it  is  only  for  the  last  two  days  that 
1  have  not  needed  fire  in  the  morning!);  and  I  bethought  me  after- 
wards that  I  had  better  have  sent  it  to  you,  whom  its  cool  Robert 
Macaire  impudence  might  have  amused.     Only  fancy  his  inviting 


138  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

me  to  come  back,  and  '  this  time  he  would  take  care  that  I  should 
have  habitable  lodgings.'  His  letter  began,  'The  last  cord  which 
held  me  to  existence  here  is  snapped,' — meaning  me!  and  so  on. 
Oh,  '  the  devil  fly  away  with  '  the  old  sentimental ! 

I  had  letters  from  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Buller  yesterday  explaining 
their  having  failed  to  invite  me ;  she  appears  to  have  been  worse 
than  ever,  and  is  likely  to  be  soon  here  again.  Poor  old  Buller'3 
modest  hope  that  the  new  medicine  '  may  not  turn  Madam  blue ' 
is  really  touching! 

Here  is  your  letter  come.  And  you  have  not  yet  got  any  from 
me  since  my  return!  Somebody  must  have  been  very  negligent, 
for  I  wrote  to  you  on  Sunday,  added  a  postscript  on  Monday,  and 
sent  off  both  letter  and  newspapers  by  Helen,  in  perfectly  good 
time.  It  is  most  provoking  after  one  has  been  (as  Helen  says;  '  just 
most  particular '  not  to  vaix  you,  to  find  that  you  have  been  vaixed 
nevertheless. 

You  ask  about  the  state  of  the  house.  Pearson  and  Co.  are  out 
of  it.  Both  the  public  rooms  are  in  a  state  of  perfect  habitableness 
again;  a  little  to  be  done  in  the  needle-work  department,  but  '  noth- 
ing' (like  Dodger's  Boy's  nose)  '  to  speak  of.'  Your  bedroom,  of 
which  the  ceiling  had  to  be  whitened  and  the  paint  washed,  &c., 
«&c.,  will  be  habitable  by  to-morrow.  The  front  bedrooms,  into 
which  all  the  confusion  had  been  piled,  are  still  to  clean; — but  that 
will  soon  be  done.  My  own  bedroom  also  needs  to  have  the  carpet 
beaten,  and  the  bed  curtains  taken  down  and  brushed ;  all  this  would 
have  been  completed  by  this  time  but  for  a  most  unexpected  and 
soul-sickening  mess,  which  I  discovered  in  the  kitchen,  which  has 
caused  work  for  several  days.  Only  fancy,  while  I  was  brighten- 
ing up  the  outside  of  the  platter  to  tind  in  Helen's  bed  a  new  colony 
of  bugs!  I  tell  you  of  it  fearlessly  this  time,  as  past  victory  gives  me 
a  sense  of  superiority  over  the  creatures.  She  said  to  me  one  morn- 
ing in  putting  down  my  breakfast,  '  My!  I  was  just  standing  this 
morning,  looking  up  at  the  corner  of  my  bed,  ye  ken,  and  there 
what  should  I  see  but  two  bogues!  I  hope  there's  na  mair.'  '  You 
hope?'  said  I  immediately  kindling  into  a  fine  phrenzy;  'how  could 
you  live  an  instant  without  making  sure?  A  pretty  thing  it  will  be 
if  you  have  let  your  bed  get  full  of  bugs  again ! '  The  shadow  of  an 
accusation  of  remissness  was  enough  of  course  to  make  her  quite 
positive.  '  How  was  she  ever  to  have  thought  of  bogues,  formerly? 
What  a  thing  to  think  about!  But  since,  she  bad  been  just  most 
particular!  To  be  sure,  these  two  must  have  come  off  these  Mudies' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  139 

shawls ! '  I  left  her  protesting  and  '  appealing  to  posterity,' '  and  ran 
off  myself  to  see  into  the  business.  She  had  not  so  much  as  taken 
off  the  curtains;  I  tore  them  off  distractedly,  pulled  in  pieces  all  of 
the  bed  that  was  pullable,  and  saw  and  killed  two,  and  in  one  place 
which  I  could  not  get  at  without  a  bed-kej',  'beings'  (as  Mazzini 
would  say)  were  clearly  moving!  Ah,  mercy  mercy,  my  dismay 
was  considerable!  Still  it  was  not  the  acme  of  horror  this  time,  as 
last  time,  for  now  I  knew  they  could  be  annihilated  root  and 
branch.  When  I  told  her  there  were  plenty,  she  went  off  to  look 
herself,  and  came  back  and  told  me  in  a  peremptory  tone  that  '  she 
had  looked  and  there  was  not  a  single  bogue  there!'  It  was  need- 
less arguing  with  a  wild  animal.  I  had  Pearson  to  take  the  bed 
down,  and  he  soon  gave  me  the  pleasant  assurance  that  'they  were 
pretty  strong! '  Neither  did  he  consider  them  a  recent  importation. 
Helen  went  out  of  the  way  at  the  taking  down  of  the  bed,  not  to 
be  proved  in  the  wrong  to  her  own  conviction;  which  was  'proba- 
bly just  as  Avell,'  as  she  might  have  saved  a  remnant  in  her  petti- 
coats, being  so  utterly  careless  about  the  article.  Pearson,  who 
shared  all  my  own  nervous  sensibility,  was  a  much  better  assistant 
for  me.  I  flung  some  twenty  pailfuls  of  water  on  the  kitchen  floor, 
in  the  first  place,  to  drown  any  that  might  attempt  to  save  them- 
selves; then  we  killed  all  that  were  discoverable,  and  flung  the 
pieces  of  the  bed,  one  after  another,  into  a  tub  full  of  water,  carried 
them  up  into  the  garden,  and  let  them  steep  there  for  two  days; — 
and  then  I  painted  all  the  joints,  had  the  curtains  washed  and  laid 
by  for  the  present,  and  hope  and  trust  there  is  not  one  escaped  alive 
to  tell.  Ach  Ooit,  what  disgusting  work  to  have  to  do! — but  the 
destroying  of  bugs  is  a  thing  that  cannot  be  neglected.  In  the 
course  of  the  bug  investigation  I  made  another  precious  discovery. 
That  the  woollen  mattress  was  being  eaten  from  imder  her  with 
moths.  That  had  to  be  torn  up  next,  all  the  wool  washed  and 
boiled,  and  teazed, — and  I  have  a  woman  here  this  day  making  it 
up  into  a  mattress  again.  In  your  bed  I  had  ocular  conviction  that 
there  were  none  when  it  was  in  pieces;  in  my  own  I  have  inferen- 
tial conviction,  for  they  would  have  been  sure  to  bite  me  the  very 
first  Adam  and  Eve  of  them;  in  the  front  room  nothing  is  discover- 
able either.  But  I  shall  take  that  bed  all  down  for  security's  sake 
before  I  have  done  with  it; — either  that,  or  go  up  and  sleep  in  it  a 
night: — but  then  imagination  miglit  deceive  me,  and  even  cause 
spots!     '  The  troubles  that  afflict  the  just,'  &c. 

*  Note,  supra. 


140  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

We  have  warm  weather  these  two  days:  not  oppressive  for  me, 
but  more  summer-like  than  any  that  has  been  this  season. 

Oh,  1  always  foigot  to  tell  you  that  in  the  railway  carriage, 
going  to  Ryde,  my  next  neighbour  was  Robert  Owen  (the  Socialist); 
he  did  not  know  au^'thing  of  me,  so  that  I  had  the  advantage  of 
him.  I  found  something  of  old  Laing  in  him,  particularly  the 
voice.  I  like  him  on  the  whole,  and  in  proof  thereof  gave  him 
two  carnations. 

Your  affectionate 

Goody. 

I  have  heard  nothing  farther  of  Father  Mathew.  Knowing  how 
busy  he  was,  and  supposing  him  not  much  used  to  corresponding 
with  women  of  genius,  I  worded  my  letter  so  as  to  make  him 
understand  I  looked  for  no  answer.  As  to  the  stuffed  Pope,'  I 
thought  of  him  (or  rather  of  it) ;  but  I  felt  too  much  confidence  in 
Father  Mathew's  good  sense  to  fear  his  being  shocked. 

LETTER  55. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq. ,  at  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Monday,  Aug.  81, 1843. 

Dearest, — I  meant  to  have  written  you  an  exceedingly  long  and 
satisfactory  letter  last  evening;  but  a  quite  other  work  was  cut  out 
for  me,  which  I  cannot  say  I  regret.  It  is  but  little  good  one  can 
do  to  a  sane  man,  whereas  for  an  insane  one  much  is  possible:  and 
I  did  even  the  impossible  for  such  a  one  last  night.  Poor  Garnier'' 
walked  in  at  five,  and  staj'ed  till  after  nine.  And  if  you  had  seen 
the  difference  in  him  at  his  entrance  and  exit,  you  would  have  said 
that  I  had  worked  a  miracle ! 

Poor  fellow!  they  may  all  abuse  him  as  they  like;  but  I  think, 
and  have  thought,  and  will  think,  well  of  him :  he  has  a  good  heart 
and  a  good  head;  only  a  nervous  system  all  bedevilled,  and  his 
external  life  fallen  into  a  horribly  burbled  state  about  him.  I  gave 
him  tea,  and  took  him  a  walk,  and  lent  him  some  music,  and 
soothed  the  troubled  soul  of  him,  and  when  he  went  away  he  said 
the  only  civil  thing  to  me  he  ever  said  in  life.  '  I  am  obliged  to 
you,  Mrs.  Carlyle;  you  have  made  me  pass  one  evening  pleasantly; 
and  I  came  very  miserable.'  He  desired  his  kind  regards  to  you, 
and  has  a  scheme,  a  propagation,  of  small  schools,  to  propound  to 

*  In  Past  and  Present.  »  See  pages  19  and  148. 


JANE  WELSH  CAELYLE.  141 

you.     His  uncle  iu  Germany  is  dead,  wliich  will  ultimately  make 
an  amendment  in  his  economics  he  seems  to  say. 

I  am  very  quiet  at  present,  so  few  people  are  left  in  town. 
Even  poor  Gludder  (the  infamy  of  giving  a  Christian  such  a  name!) 
has  been  gone  some  time  to  Tottenham  Park;  but  his  patience 
seems  near  the  end  of  its  tether,  and  he  purposes  emancipating 
himself  shortly,  'before  he  loses  his  faculties  altogether.'  Then 
Darwin  is  always  going  off  on  short  excursions.  The  Macready 
women,  however,  came  the  day  before  yesterday,  the  first  time  I 
had  seen  them  since  your  departure.  And  I  have  something  to 
ask  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Macready:  'If  you  could  give  William 
any  letters  of  introduction  for  America,  it  would  be  such  a  favour! ' 
She  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  his  '  going  merely  as  a  player,  without 
private  recommendations.'  They  looked  perfectly  heart-broken, 
these  women.  The  letters  to  America  will  be  needed  within  ten 
days.  To  Emerson?  Who  is  there  else  worth  knowing  in 
America?     I  promised  to  spend  a  day  with  them  before  he  went. 

Poor  Father  Mathew,  they  say,  is  getting  into  deep  waters  here. 
He  does  not  possess  the  Cockney  strength  of  silence;  his  Irish 
blood  gets  up  when  he  is  angered,  and  he  '  commits  himself;'  I  am 
all  the  more  pleased  at  having  given  him  my  most  sweet  voice,  for 
there  is  plainly  a  vast  deal  of  party  spirit  taking  the  field  to  put 
him  down.  One  thing  they  laugh  at  him  for  is,  to  my  thinking, 
highly  meritorious.  Somebody  trjing  to  stir  up  the  crowd  against 
him,  said,  '  What  good  can  come  to  you  from  that  man? — he  is 
only  a  Popish  ]\Ionk!'  Whereupon  Father  Mathew  burst  out, 
'  And  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  no  good  can  come  from  a  Pop- 
ish Monk?  Have  you  not  received  just  the  greatest  blessings  from 
Popish  Monks?  Have  you  not  received  Christianity  from  a  Popish 
Monk?  the  Reformation  from  a  Popish  Monk — Martin  Luther?' 
There  was  something  so  delightfully  Irish,  and  liberal  at  the  same 
time,  in  this  double  view  of  Luther! 

No  letter  from  you  to-day ;  but  perhaps  there  will  come  one  ia 
the  evening.  You  cannot  be  accused  of  remissness  in  writing,  at 
all  rates,  whatever  j'our  other  faults  may  be.  Oh,  no!  you  need 
not  go  to  Thornhill.i  It  was  a  selfish  request  on  my  part.  I 
would  not  go  myself  for  a  thousand  guineas.  But  send  the  five 
pound  for  poor  old  Mary  before  you  leave  the  country:  her  money 
falls  entirely  done  at  tlie  end  of  this  mouth.  I  computed  it  quite 
accurately,  when  Mrs.  Russell  wrote  that  she  had  still  thirty  shil- 

1  See  «wpra,  however?   I  hope  devoutly  it  was  that  time.    Ah,  mel 


143  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

lings.     She  will  not  be  long  to  provide  for,  poor  old  soul !    I  have 
sent  the  books  for  Lockhart. 

I  am  busy  with  a  little  work  just  now  that  makes  me  so  sad. 
You  remember  the  new  curtains  that  came  from  Templand.  When 
she  made  them,  she  wrote  to  me,  '  they  looked  so  beautiful  that  she 
could  not  find  in  her  heart  to  hang  them  up  till  I  should  be  coming 
again; '  and  the  first  sight  I  was  to  have  of  them  was  here! — and  it 
was  here,  not  there,  that  they  were  to  be  hung  up.  It  needed  a 
deal  of  scheming  and  altering  to  make  them  fit  our  high  room ;  and 
picking  out  her  sewing  has  been  such  sorrowful  work  for  me :  still 
I  could  not  let  anybody  meddle  with  them  except  myself;  and  to 
keep  them  lying  there  was  just  as  sorrowful.     Oh,  dear,  dear! 

I  hope  you  are  quite  free  of  your  cold;  the  weather  is  quite  cool 
again.     God  bless  you. 

Your  afEectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

' Gamier' 1  was  from  Baden;  a  revolutionary  exile,  filled  with 
mutinous  confusion  of  the  usual  kind,  and  with  its  usual  conse- 
quences; a  black-eyed,  tall,  stalwart-looking  mass  of  a  man;  face 
all  cut  with  scars  (of  duels  in  his  student  time),  but  expressive  still 
of  frankness,  honesty,  ingenuity,  and  good  humour;  dirty  for  most 
part,  yet  as  it  were  heroically  so:  few  men  had  more  experience 
of  poverty  and  squalor  here,  or  took  it  more  proudly.  He  had 
some  real  scholarship,  a  good  deal  of  loose  information;  occasion- 
ally wrote,  and  had  he  been  of  moderate  humour  could  always 
have  written,  with  something  of  real  talent.  Cole,  the  now  great 
Cole,  of  'the  Brompton  boilers,'  occasionally  met  him  (in  the 
Buller  Committee,  for  instance),  and  tried  to  help  him,  as  did  I. 
Together  we  got  him  fiually  into  some  small  clerkship  under  Cole. 
Cole  selecting  the  feasible  appointment,  I  recommending  to  Lord 
Stanley,  who,  as  'whipper-in,'  had  the  nomination  and  always  be- 
lieved what  I  testified  to  him.  'You  called  me  n  rhinoceros' {not 
to  be  driven  like  a  tame  ox),  said  Gamier  to  me  on  this  occasion, 
pretending,  and  only  pretending,  to  be  angry  at  me.  In  a  year  or 
two  he  flung  off  this  harness  too,  and  took  to  the  desert  again. 
Poor  soul!  he  was  at  last  visibly  now  and  then  rather  mad.  In 
1848  we  heard  he  had  rushed  into  German  whirlpool,  and,  fighting 
in  Baden,  had  perished.  John  Mill,  in  1834,  had  been  bis  intro- 
ducer here. 

'  Gludder '  was  one  Plattnauer  (still  living  hereabouts  and  an  es- 
teemed tutor  in  noble  families),  whom  Cavaignac  had  (on  repeated 
pressure)  lately  introduced  here,  and  who  has  hung  about  us,  lov- 
ingly, and  much  pitied  by  her.  ever  since.  I  never  could  much 
take  to  him,  had  called  him  '  Gladder'  (a  word  of  my  father's)  from 
the  sad  sound  he  made  in  articulating  (as  if  through  slush),  or  get 


>  See  page  19,  note. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  143 

real  good  of  him,  nor  now  can  when  be  has  grown  so  sad  to  me. 
On  the  whole,  one  rapidly  enough  perceived  that  the  foreign  exile 
element  was  not  the  recommendable  one,  and,  except  for  her  pic- 
turesque aesthetic,  &c.  interest  in  it,  would  have  been  very  brief  with 
it  here.  As  indeed  I  essentially  was;  nor  she  herself  very  tedious. 
Except  with  Cavaignac  I  never  had  any  intimacy,  any  pleasant  or 
useful  conversation,  among  these  people — except  for  Mazzini,  and 
him  any  real  respect — and  from  the  first  dialogue,  Mazziui's  opin- 
ions were  to  me  incredible,  and  (at  once  tragically  and  comically) 
impracticable  in  this  world.  She,  too.  even  of  Mazzini,  gradually 
came  to  that  view,  though  to  the  last  she  had  alwaj-s  an  affection 
for  Mazzini,  and  for  the  chivalrous  and  grandly  humorous  Cavaig- 
nac (and  for  the  memory  of  him  afterwards)  still  more, — T.  C. 


LETTER  56. 
T.  Garlyle,  Esq.,  at  Scoisbrig,  Ecdefeclian. 

Chelsea:  Sunday  night,  Aug.  27, 1843. 

Dearest, — Another  evening,  in  thought  set  apart  for  you,  has 
been  eaten  up  alive  by  'rebellious  consonants.'  I  had  told  Helen 
to  go  after  dinner  and  take  herself  a  long  walk,  assuring  her  no- 
body could  possibly  arrive,  for  the  best  of  reasons,  that  '  there  was 
not  a  human  being  left  in  London.'  And  just  when  I  had  fetched 
up  my  own  tea,  and  was  proceeding  to  '  enjo-oy  if  quite  in  old- 
maid  style,  there  arrived  Darley,*  the  sight  of  whom  gave  me  a 
horrible  foretaste  of  fidgets  and  nameless  woe,  which  was  dulj'  ful- 
filled to  me  in  good  time.  However,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  got 
a  little  good  for  having  a  mouthful  of  human  (or  rather,  to  speak 
accurately,  inhuman)  speech  with  someone;  and  in  that  case  one's 
care  being  '  the  welfare  of  others.'  «fec.  &c.  For  myself  individually, 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  spent  the  evening  under  a  harrow. 

I  hardly  know  where  a  letter  now  shall  find  you.  But  perhaps 
to-morrow  will  direct  me  before  sending  this  away.  It  is  very 
stupid  of  the  Ferguses — a  fact  almost  as  absurd  as  speaking  to 
Elizabeth  of  sending  us  potatoes  last  year,  and  never  i^ending  tlicm. 
But  if  you  want  to  see  the  battle-ground  at  Dunbar,  I  am  sure  you 
need  not  miss  it  for  lack  of  somewliere  to  go.  The  poor  Donald- 
sons— nay,  everybody  in  Haddington — would  be  so  glad  to  have 

'  The  good  W.  Graham,  of  Burnswark,  a  true  and  kind,  and  very  emphatic, 
friend  of  mine,  had  thoughtlessly  bragged  once  (first  time  she  saw  him),  at  a 
breakfast  with  us  dj'speptics,  how  he  '  enjo-oyed  '  this  and  that. 

'  'Darley'  (George),  from  Dublin,  mathematician,  considerable  actuall}'  and 
do.  poet,  an  amiable,  modest,  veracious,  and  intelligent  man ;  much  loved 
here,  though  ho  stammered  dreadfully. 


144  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

you.  The  Donaldsons,  you  know,  formerly  invited  you  '  for  a 
)nonth  or  two '  this  spring.  I  cannot  detect  the  association,  but  it 
comes  in  my  head  at  this  moment,  and  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  that 
the  Revd.  Candlish  is  in  great  raptures  over  '  Past  and  Present; '  so 
Robertson  told  me  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  Gamier  also  told  me 
that  the  book  had  a  success  of  an  unusual  and  very  desirable  kind; 
it  was  not  so  much  that  people  spoke  about  it,  as  that  they 
spoke  out  of  it;  in  these  mysterious  conventions  of  his,  your 
phrases,  he  said,  were  become  a  part  of  the  general  dialect.  The 
booksellers  would  not  have  Garnier's  translation :  that  was  the  rea- 
son of  its  being  given  up;  not  that  he  was  too  mad  for  it.  It  was  / 
who  told  you  about  the  Lord  Dudley  Stuart  affair ;  Gamier  gave  me 
his  own  version  of  it  that  night,  and  it  seemed  quite  of  a  piece  with 
his  usual  conduct — good  intentions,  always  unfortunate;  a  right 
thing  wrongly  set  about. 

Well,  the  Italian  'Movement'  has  begun;  and  also,  I  suppose, 
ended.  Mazzini  has  been  in  a  state  of  violent  excitement  all  these 
weeks,  really  forcibly  reminding  one  of  Frank  Dickson's  goose  with 
the  addle  egg.  Nothing  liindered  him  from  going  off  to  head  the 
movement,  except  that,  unexpectedly  enough,  the  movement  did 
not  invite  him ;  na}^  took  pains  to  '  keep  him  in  a  certain  ignor- 
ance,'  and  his  favourite  conspirator  abroad.  The  movement  went 
into  Sicily  '  to  act  there  alone,'  plainly  indicating  that  it  meditated 
some  arrangement  of  Italy  such  as  they  two  would  not  approve, 
'  something — what  shall  I  say? — constitutional.'  He  came  one  day, 
and  told  me  quite  seriously  that  a  week  more  would  determine  him 
whether  to  go  singly  and  try  to  enter  the  country  in  secret,  or  to 
persuade  a  frigate  now  here,  which  he  deemed  persuadable,  to  re- 
volt openly  and  take  him  there  by  force.  'And  with  one  frigate,' 
said  I,  '  you  mean  to  overthrow  the  Austrian  Empire,  amidst  the 
general  peace  of  Europe?'  'Why  not?  the  beginning  only  is 
wanted.'  I  could  not  help  telling  him  that  '  a  Harrow  or  Eton 
schoolboy  who  uttered  such  nonsense,  and  proceeded  to  give  it  a 
practical  shape,  would  be  whipt  and  expelled  the  community  as  a 
mischievous  blockhead.'  He  was  made  very  angry,  of  course,  but 
it  was  impossible  to  see  anybody  behaving  so  like  'a  mad,'  without 
telling  him  one's  mind.  He  a  conspirator  chief!  I  should  make 
an  infinitely  better  one  mj'-self.  What,  for  instance,  can  be  more 
out  of  the  role  of  conspirator  than  his  telling  me  all  his  secret  opera- 
tions, even  to  tlie  names  of  places  where  conspiracy  is  breaking  out, 
and  the  names  of  people  who  are  organising  it?    Me,  who  do  not 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE,  145 

even  ever  ask  him  a  question  on  such  matters ;  who  on  the  contrary 
evade  them  as  much  as  possible!  A  man  has  a  right  to  put  his  own 
life  and  safety  at  the  mercy  of  whom  he  will,  but  no  amount  of  con^ 
fidence  in  a  friend  can  justify  him  for  making  such  dangerous  dis- 
closures concerning  others.  What  would  there  have  been  very 
unnatural,  for  example,  in  my  sending  a  few  words  to  the  Austrian 
Government,  warning  them  of  the  projected  outbreaks,  merely  for 
the  purpose  of  having  them  prevented,  so  as  to  save  Mazzini's  head 
and  the  heads  of  the  greater  number,  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  few?  If 
I  had  not  believed  that  it  would  be,  like  the  '  Savoy's  Expedition,' 
stopped  by  some  providential  toll-bar,  I  believe  I  should  have  felt 
it  my  duty  as  Mazzini's  friend  to  do  this  thing.  Bologna  was  the 
place  where  they  were  first  to  raise  their  foolscap-standard.  The 
'  Examiner '  mentions  carelessly  some  young  men  having  collected 
in  the  streets,  and  '  raised  seditious  cries,  and  even  fired  some  shots 
at  the  police;'  cannon  were  planted,  &c.,  'Austrians  ready  to 
march  ' — not  a  doubt  of  it;  and  seditious  cries  will  make  a  poor  bat- 
tle against  cannon.  Mazzini  is  confident,  however,  that  the  thing 
will  not  stop  here;  and,  if  it  goes  on,  is  resolute  also  in  getting  into 
the  thick  of  it.  'What  do  you  say  of  my  head?  what  are  results? 
are  there  not  things  more  important  than  one's  head  ?  '  '  Certainly, 
but  I  should  say  that  the  man  who  has  not  sense  enough  to  keep 
his  head  on  his  shouldei-s  till  something  is  to  be  gained  by  parting 
with  it,  has  not  sense  enough  to  manage,  or  dream  of  managing,  any 
important  matter  whatever.'  Our  dialogues  become  'warm,' but 
you  see  how  much  I  have  written  about  this,  which  you  will  think 
six  words  too  many  for. 
Good-night ;  I  must  go  and  sleep. 

Monday. 
Dearest, — Thanks  for  your  letter,  and,  oh,  a  thousand  thanks  for 
all  this  you  have  done  for  me!  I  am  glad  that  you  have  seen  these 
poor  people,'  that  they  have  had  the  gladness  of  seeing  you.  Poor 
old  Mary!  it  will  be  something  to  talk  and  think  over  for  a  year  to 
come.  Your  letter  has  made  me  cry,  to  be  sure,  but  has  made  me 
very  contented  nevertheless.  I  am  very  grateful  to  you.  Did  Mrs. 
Russell  say  anything  about  not  having  answered  my  letter?  I  sent 
a  little  shawl,  on  my  last  birthday,  to  Margaret,  to  Mrs.  R.'s  care, 
and  a  pound  of  tea  (that  is  money  for  it)  to  old  Mary,  in  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  Russell,  and,  as  I  have  never  heard  a  word  from  Thornhill 


»  At  Thornhill,  to  which  Carlyle  had  gone,  at  her  request. 

I.-7 


146  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

since,  I  have  sometimes  feared  the  things  had  been  taken  by  the 
way;  it  is  very  stupid  in  people  not  to  give  one  the  satisfaction  of 
writing  on  tliese  little  occasions. 

I  am  afraid  you  will  think  Loudon  dreadfully  solitary  when  you 
return  from  the  country.  Actually  there  never  was  so  quiet  a 
house  except  Craigenputtock  as  this  has  been  for  the  last  fortnight. 
Darwin  finally  is  ofE  this  morning  to  Shrewsbury  for  three  weeks. 
He  gave  me  a  drive  to  Parson's  Green  yesterday;  'wondered  if 
Carlyle  would  give  admiration  enough  for  all  my  needlework,  «&c., 
&c.,  feared  not;  but  he  would  have  a  vague  sense  of  comfort  from 
it,'  and  uttered  many  other  sarcastic  things,  by  way  of  going  off  in 
good  Darwin  style.  Just  when  I  seemed  to  be  got  pretty  well 
through  my  sewing,  I  have  rushed  wildly  into  a  new  mess  of  it.  I 
have  realised  an  ideal,  have  actually  acquired  a  small  sofa,  which 
needs  to  be  covered,  of  course.  I  think  I  see  your  questioning  look 
at  this  piece  of  news:  'A  sofa?  Just  now,  above  all,  when  there 
had  been  so  much  else  done  and  to  pay  for!  This  little  woman  is 
falling  away  from  her  hitherto  thrifty  character,  and  become  down- 
right extravagant.'  Never  fear!  this  little  woman  knows  what  she 
is  about;  the  sofa  costs  you  simply  nothing  at  all!  Neither  have  I 
sillily  paid  four  or  five  pounds  away  for  it  out  of  my  own  private 
purse.  It  is  a  sofa  which  I  have  known  about  for  the  last  year 
and  half.  The  man  who  had  it  asked  41  lOs.  for  it;  was  willing 
to  sell  it  without  mattress  or  cushions  for  21.  10s.  I  had  a  spare 
mattress  which  I  could  make  to  fit  it,  and  also  pillows  lying  by  of 
no  use.  But  still,  2^.  10s.  was  more  than  I  cared  to  lay  out  of  my 
own  money  on  the  article,  so  I  did  a  stroke  of  trade  with  him. 
The  old  green  curtains  of  downstairs  were  become  filthy;  and, 
what  was  better,  superfluous.  No  use  could  be  made  of  them, 
unless  first  dyed  at  the  rate  of  7d.  per  yard ;  it  was  good  to  be  rid 
of  them,  that  they  might  not  fill  the  house  with  moths,  as  those 
sort  of  woollen  things  lying  by  always  do:  so  I  sold  them  to  the 
broker  for  thirty  shillings;  I  do  honestly  think  more  than  their 
value;  but  I  higgled  a  full  hour  with  him,  and  the  sofa  had  lain  on 
his  hands.  So  you  perceive  there  remained  only  one  pound  to 
pay;  and  that  I  paid  with  Kitty  Kiikpatrick's  sovereign,  which  I 
had  laid  aside  not  to  be  appropriated  to  my  own  absolutely  indi- 
vidual use.  So  there  is  a  sofa  created  in  a  manner  by  the  mere 
wish  to  have  it. 

Oh,  what  nonsense  clatter  I  do  write  to  thee!  Bless  you,  dear- 
est, anyhow.  Affectionately  your  own, 

Jane  Carltlb. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  147 

I  did  go  to  Dunbar  battle-field,  remember  vividly  my  survey 
there,  my  wild  windy  walk  from  Haddington  thither  and  back; 
bright  Sunday,  but  gradually  the  windiest  I  was  ever  out  in;  head 
wind  (west),  on  my  return,  would  actually  hold  my  hat  against  my 
breast  for  minutes  together.  It  was  days  before  I  got  the  sand 
out  of  my  hair  again.  Saw  East  Lothian,  all  become  a  treeless 
'Corn  Manchester' — a  little  more  money  in  its  pocket — and  of 
piety,  to  God  or  man,  or  mother-earth,  how  much  left?  At  Linton 
in  the  forenoon,  I  noticed  lying  on  the  green,  many  of  them  with 
Bibles,  some  150  decent  Highlanders;  last  remnant  of  the  old 
•Highland  reapers'  here;  and  round  them,  in  every  quarter,  all 
such  a  herd  of  miserable,  weak,  restless  'wild  Irish,'  their  con- 
querors and  successors  here,  as  filled  me  with  a  kind  of  rage  and 
sorrow  at  once;  all  in  ragged  grey  frieze,  3,000  or  4,000  of  them, 
aimless,  restless,  hungry,  senseless,  more  like  apes  than  men; 
swarming  about,  leaping  into  bean-fields,  turnip-fields,  and  out 
again,  asking  you  'the  toime,  sir.' — I  almost  wondered  the  Sabba- 
tarian country  did  not  rise  on  them,  fling  the  whole  lot  into  the 
Frith.  Sabbatarian  country  never  dreamt  of  such  a  thing,  and  I 
could  not  do  it  myself;  I  merely  told  them  'the  toime,  sir.' 

The  excellent  old  Misses  Donaldson,  how  kind,  how  good,  and 
sad;  I  never  saw  one  of  them  again.  Vacant,  sad,  wasHadding- 
ton  to  me ;  sternly  sad  the  grave  which  has  now  become  hers  as 
well!    I  have  seen  it  tv.'icc  since. 


LETTER  57. 

Brother  '  John '  is  on  the  way  to  Italy — never  one  of  the  quietest 
of  men  in  this  house! — 'Time  and  Space,'  &c.,  is  a  story  of  Mrs. 
Austin's,  about  two  metaphysical  spouses  (I  quite  forget  whom)  on 
their  wedding-day:  '  Come,  my  dear  one,  and  let  us  have,'  &c. 


T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  Aug.  31, 1843. 
Dearest, — The  enclosed  note  from  John  arrived  last  night,  along 
with  yours  announcing  his  departure  for  Liverpool.  I  wish  he  had 
been  coming  after  you,  or  even  with  you.  I  had  set  my  heart  on 
your  hanselling  the  clean  house  yourself,  and  that  there  would 
have  been  a  few  days  in  peace  to  inspect  its  curiosities  and  niceties 
before  he  came  plunging  in  to  send  all  the  books  afloat,  and  litter 
the  floors  with  first  and  second  and  third  and  fourth  scrawls  of  ver- 
felilt  letters.  But,  like  Mademoiselle  L'Espinasse,  son  talent  est 
d'etre  totijours  Jiors  de  proposf  If  he  cared  about  seeing  oneself,  it 
would  be  quite  different;  but  if  the  house  would  go  on  like  those 
charming  palaces  one  reads  of  in  the  fairy  tales,  where  clothes  are 
found  hanging  ready  at  the  fire  to  be  put  on  by  the  wearied  travel- 


148  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

ler,  and  a  table  comes  up  througti  the  floor  all  spread  to  appease 
his  hunger,  oneself  might  be  a  thousand  miles  off,  or,  like  the 
enchanted  Princess  of  these  establishments,  might  be  running 
about  in  the  shape  of  a  'little  mouse,'  without  his  contentment 
being  disturbed,  or  indeed  anything  but  increased,  by  the  blank. 
Howsomdever! — Only,  when  you  come,  I  shall  insist  on  going  into 
some  room  with  you,  and  locking  the  door,  till  we  have  had  a  quiet 
comfortable  talk  about  'Time  and  Space,'  untormented  by  his 
blether.  Meanwhile,  '  the  duty  nearest  hand  '  is  to  get  on  the  stair- 
carpet  that  he  may  run  up  and  down  more  softly. 

LETTER  58. 

From  the  Dunbar  expedition  I  seem  to  have  gone  again  to  Scots- 
brig  for  a  few  final  days;  thence  homewards,  round  by  Edinburgh, 
by  Kirkcaldy,  and  at  length  by  Linlathen,  for  the  sake  of  a  Dun- 
dee steamer,  in  wliich  I  still  remember  to  have  come  hence.  Vivid 
enough  still  that  day  of  my  embarkation  at  Dundee;  between  Dun- 
bar and  that,  almost  nothing  of  distinct.  '  The  good  Stirlings '  are 
Susan  Hunter,  of  St.  Andrews,  and  her  husband,  a  worthy  engineer, 
now  resident  at  Dundee — pleasant  house  on  the  sea-shore,  where  I 
must  have  called,  but  found  them  gone  out.  The  good  Susan  (I 
remember  hearing  afterwards)  had,  from  her  windows,  with  a  pros- 
pect-glass, singled  me  out  ou  the  chaotic  deck  of  the  steamer  about 
to  leave;  and  kept  me  steadily  in  view  for  about  an  hour,  in  spite 
of  the  crowds  and  confusions,  till  we  actually  steamed  away. 
"Which  seemed  curious!  An  hour  or  two  before,  in  driving  thiiher 
from  Linlathen,  I  distinctly  recognised,  on  the  pathway,  John 
Jeffrey  ('Frank'  or  Lord  Jeffrey's  brother),  quiet,  amiable  man, 
with  his  face  (which  was  towards  me,  but  intent  ou  the  constitu- 
tional walk  only)  grown  strangely  red  since  I  had  seen  him;  the 
guest  of  these  Stirlings  I  could  well  guess,  and  indeed  not  far  from 
their  house.     He  died  soon  after;  my  last  sight  of  him  this. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  T.  ErsMne's,  Esq.,  Linlathen,  Dundee. 

Chelsea:  Sept.  IS  (?),  1843. 
Dearest, — I  could  almost  have  cried,  last  night,  when  the  letter  I 
had  sent  off  on  Thursday  came  back  to  me  from  Scotsbrig;  though 
I  knew,  after  receiving  yours  from  Dumfries,  tliat  it  would  not 
reach  you  there,  I  made  sure  of  their  sending  it  on  to  Edinburgh, 
and  that  so  there  would  be  something  for  you  at  the  post-office. 
But  for  this  fond  illusion  I  should  not  have  let  a  slight  headache, 
combined  with  a  great  washing  of  blankets,  hinder  me  from  doing 
your  bidding  in  that  small  matter.  "When  you  are  so  unfailing  in 
writing  to  me — and  such  kind,  good  letters — it  were  a  shame  indeed 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  149 

if  I  wilfully  disappointed  you.  You  will  not  have  been  anxious 
anyhow  I  hope,  for  that  would  be  a  worse  effect  of  my  silence  than 
to  have  made  you  angry  with  me. 

All  is  going  on  here  as  well  as  could  be  expected;  not  so  com- 
fortably indeed  as  when  I  was  aloue,  but  I  shall  '  be  good,'  you  may 
depend  upon  it,  'till  you  come.'  John  arrived  in  due  course,  in  a 
sort  of  sublimely  self-complacent  state,  enlarging  much  on  his  gen- 
eral usefulness  wherever  he  had  been!  Since  then  I  have  had  his 
company  at  all  meals,  and  he  reads  in  the  same  room  with  me,  in 
the  evenings,  a  great  many  books  simultaneously,  which  he  rum- 
mages out  one  after  another  from  all  the  different  places  where  I 
had  arranged  them  in  the  highest  order.  The  rest  of  his  time 
is  spent  as  you  can  figure:  going  out  and  in,  up  and  down, 
backwards  and  forwards;  smoking,  and  playing  with  the  cat  in 
the  garden;  writing  notes  in  his  own  room  and  your  room  alter- 
nately; and  pottei'ing  about  Brompton,  looking  at  Robertson's 
lodgings  and  Gambardella's  lodgings  over  and  over  again,  with 
how  much  of  a  practical  view  no  mortal  can  tell.  For  just 
when  I  thought  he  was  deciding  for  Gambardella's,  he  came  in 
and  told  me  that  he  thought  he  would  have  an  offer  from 
Lady  Clare's  brother  to  go  to  Italy,  and  expressed  astonishment 
on  my  saying  that  I  had  understood  he  did  not  want  to  go  back 
to  Italy.  '  Why  not?  He  could  not  afford  to  set  up  as  doc- 
tor here,  and  keep  up  a  large  house  that  would  be  suitable 
for  the  purpose.'  That  is  always  a  subject  of  discussion  which 
brings  the  image  of  my  own  noble  father  before  me;  making 
a  contrast,  under  which  I  cannot  argue  without  losing  all  tem- 
per. So  I  quitted  it  as  fast  as  possible,  and  he  has  not  told  me 
anything  more  of  his  views.  I  should  really  be  sorry  for  him, 
weltering  'like  a  fly  among  treacle  '  as  he  is,  if  it  were  not  for  his 

self-conceit,  which  seems  to  be  always  saying  to  one,  ' j^ou,  be 

wae  for  yburself! '' 

I  have  nothing  to  tell  you  of  the  news  sort,  and  of  the  inner- 
woman  sort;  I  feel  as  if  I  had  now  only  to  await  your  coming  in 
silence.  The  note  from  Cole  came  this  morning.  Nickison's  was 
returned  from  Scotsbrig  along  with  my  letter  last  night.  Do  not 
forget  that  we  have  a  cousin  in  Fife.^    The  thing  being  a  novelty 

'  A  conceited,  quizzing  man,  to  poor  Rae,  an  industrious  simpleton,  nursing 
his  baby  at  that  moment,  on  the  street  of  Ecclefechan:  'Rae,  I's  wae  for 
you.'  '  Damn  ye,  be  wae  for  yersel'  I "  answered  Rae  sharply,  with  laughter 
from  the  bystanders.  "^  Rev.  Walter  Welsh,  Auchtertool. 


150  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

miglit  easily  slip  your  memory,  and  if  you  go  back  to  Edinburgh 
do  try  to  see  poor  Betty,'  who  would  be  made  happy  for  a  year  by 
the  sight  of  any  of  us.  Her  address  is  15  East  Adam  Street;  my 
aunts',  in  case  you  should  have  any  leisure  for  them,  is  30  Clarence 
Street.     And  Sam  Aitken?^ 

I  do  not  see  how  you  are  to  get  home  by  Saturday's  steamer,  after 
all.  If  j^ou  go  to  Dundee,  you  might  spend  a  day  very  pleasantly 
with  those  good  Sterlings,  besides  there  being  '  St.  Thomas  ' » to 
see.  Do  not  hurry  yourself  an  hour  on  my  account ;  all  will  go  well 
till  you  come.  Remember  me  kindly  to  everybody  that  cares  for 
me;  if  you  have  time,  look  in  on  Helen's  sister,'*  and  say  I  have  been 
very  well  satisfied  with  her  this  long  while. 

Poor  Macready  called  to  take  leave  of  me  and  to  leave  with  me 
his  '  grateful  regards  '  for  you.  His  little  wife,  who  accompanied 
him,  looked  the  very  picture  of  woe.  I  could  not  help  thinking,  if 
he  met  the  fate  of  Power. ^  And  when  I  bade  him  farewell  I  turned 
quite  sick  myself  in  sympathy  with  the  little  woman.  Gamier  was 
back  last  night  uncommonly  sane,  with  a  very  bad  coat,  but  clean; 
had  been  working  very  hard,  and  drinking,  I  should  say,  not  at  all. 

God  bless  you,  dear;  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  all  that 
you  told  me  in  your  last  two  letters ;  they  were  very  sad  but  very 
precious  to  me. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  C. 
LETTER  59. 

To  John  Forster,  Esq.,  58  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Chelsea:  Friday  morning,  Sept.  1843. 
Oh,  my  good  Brother,— For  two  things  accept  my  '  unmitigated ' 
thanks!  First  for  having  done  the  King  of  Prussia  so  famously 
that  the  innocent  heart  of  old  Krazinski  leapt  for  joy;— secondly  for 
a  more  'questionable'  kindness,  viz.,  having  done  for  Strafford! 
Hang  the  'Legitimate  Drammar! '  or  in  my  husband's  more  poeti- 
cal dialect,  '  the  devil  fly  away  with  it! '    I  have  told  him  (Sterling) 

1  '  Betty  '  is  the  old  servant  at  Haddington,  now  married,  in  Edinburgh,  stil) 
li\-ing  near;  one  of  the  most  pious,  true,  and  affectionate  of  women. 

*  Obliging  bookseller,  successor  of  Bradfute. 

5  T.  Erskine,  of  Linlathen,  to  whom  I  did  go.    Home  thence  by  steamer. 

*  At  Kirkcaldy. 

*  Comic  Irish  actor,  sailed  to  America,  had  'splendid  success'  there.  On 
the  return  voyage  steamer  itself  went  down;  mouse  and  man  never  heard  of 
more. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  151 

all  along  that  it  was  poor  stuff,  and  had  belter  not  see  the  light,  or 
at  least  have  the  light  see  it.  But,  uo!  it  was  a  great  and  glorious 
piece  of  work  in  its  author's  opinion;  and  I,  and  all  who  fail  to 
recognise  it  for  such,  were  blinded  by  envy  or  some  other  of  the 
evil  passions.  I  was  so  glad  you  did  not  praise  it,  and  so  undo  all 
the  salutary  influence  which  my  abuse  of  it  might  ultimately  exert 
on  him. 

My  husband  is  likely  to  turn  up  here  in  about  a  week.  His 
shadow  (his  brother)  is  cast  before  him, — arrived  last  night. 

LETTER  60. 

I  had  sent  out  '  Past  and  Present '  I  think  in  the  early  part  of 
this  summer,  and  then  gone  on  a  lengthened  tour  of  expected 
'  recreation  '  into  Wales  (to  my  poor  friend  Redwood  at  Llandough, 
Cowbridge,  there),  thence  to  Carmarthen  (three  days)  to  the 
Bishop  of  St.  David's  here,  days  mostly  wet;  thence  by  Malvern 
to  Liverpool ;  met  my  brother,  and  with  him  to  North  Wales  (top 
of  Snowdou  cloaked  in  thick  mist  on  our  arrival  there) — at  Beth- 
gellert  and  Tremadoc  deluges  of  rain,  &c.  &c. — back  to  Liverpool, 
and  thence  to  Annandale  for  three  weeks;  after  all  which  home  to 
Chelsea,  as  noticed  in  this  letter;  all  the  subsequent  details  of 
which  rise  gradually  into  clearness,  generally  of  a  painful  nature 
to  me.  The  fittings  and  refittings  for  me  full  of  loving  ingenuity, 
the  musical  young  lady  other  side  the  wall;  the  general  dreary  and 
chaotic  state  of  inward  man  while  struggling  to  get  '  Cromwell ' 
started,  all  this  and  the  bright  ever-cheering  presence  in  it,  literally 
the  only  cheering  element  there  was,  comes  back  into  my  heart  with 
a  moinnful  gratitude  at  this  moment. 

'  The  Muciies  '  were  two  grown  daughters  of  a  Mr.  Mudie  whom 
I  recollect  hearing  of  about  1818  as  a  restless,  somewhat  reckless, 
and  supreme  schoolmaster  at  Dundee.  He  had  thrown  up  his 
function  there  in  about  1830,  and  marched  off  to  London  as  a  liter- 
ary adventurer.  Here  for  above  twenty  years  he  did  manage  to 
subsist  and  float  about  in  tlie  'mother  of  dead  dogs,'  liad  even  con- 
siderable success  of  a  kind;  wrote  a  great  many  miscellaneous  vol- 
umes mostly  about  natural  history,  I  think,  wliich  were  said  to  dis- 
play diligence  and  merit,  and  to  have  brought  him  considerable 
sums.  But  l)y  this  time  the  poor  fellow  had  broken  down,  had  died 
and  left  a  family,  mostly  duughters,  with  a  foolisli  widow,  and  next 
to  no  provision  whatever  for  lliem.  The  casewps  abundantly  pite- 
ous, but  it  was  not  by  encouragement  from  me,  to  whom  it  seemed 
from  the  first  hopeless,  that  my  dear  one  entered  into  it  with  such 
zeal  and  determination.  Her  plans  were,  I  believe,  the  wisest  that 
could  be  formed,  and  the  trouble  .she  took  w;is  very  great.  I  re- 
member these  Mudies — flary,  staring,  and  conceited,  stolid-looking 
girls,  thinking  tiiemselves  handsome,  being  lirought  to  live  with  us 
here,  to  get  out  of  tlie  maternal  element,  while  'places'  were  being 
prepared  for  them;  but  uo  amount  of  trouble  was,  or  could  be,  of 


153  LETTEKS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

the  least  avail.  The  wretched  stalking  blockheads  stalked  fate- 
fully,  iu  spite  of  all  that  could  be  done  or  said,  steadily  downwards 
toward  perdition,  and  sank  altogether  out  of  view.  There  was  no 
want  of  pity  iu  this  house.  I  never  knew  a  heart  more  open  to  the 
sufferings  of  others,  and  to  the  last  she  persisted  iu  attempts  at  little 
operations  for  behoof  of  such;  but  had  to  admit  that  except  in  one 
or  two  small  instances  she  had  done  no  good  to  the  unfortunate 
objects  she  attempted  to  aid. — T.  C,  March  1873. 

Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries. 

October  1843. 
My  dear  Jane, — Carlyle  returned  from  his  travels  very  bilious, 
and  continues  very  bilious  up  to  this  hour.  The  amount  of  bile 
that  he  does  bring  home  to  me,  in  these  cases,  is  something  '  aw- 
fully grand! ' '  Even  through  that  deteriorating  medium  he  could 
not  but  be  struck  with  a  '  certain  admiration '  at  the  immensity  of 
needlework  I  had  accomplished  iu  his  absence,  in  the  shape  of 
chair-covers,  sofa-covers,  window  curtains,  &c.,  &c.,  and  all  the 
other  manifest  improvements  into  which  I  had  put  my  whole  genius 
and  industry,  and  so  little  money  as  was  hardly  to  be  conceived!'^ 
For  three  days  his  satisfaction  over  the  rehabilitated  house  lasted; 
on  the  fourth,  the  young  lady  next  door  took  a  lit  of  practising  on 
her  accursed  pianoforte,  which  he  had  quite  forgotten  seemingly, 
and  he  started  up  disenchanted  in  his  new  library,  and  informed 
heaven,  and  earth  in  a  peremptory  manner  that  'there  he  could 
neither  think  nor  live,'  that  the  carpenter  must  be  brought  back 
and  '  steps  taken  to  make  him  a  quiet  place  somewhere — perhaps 
best  of  all  on  the  roof  of  the  house.'  Then  followed  interminable 
consultations  with  the  said  carpenter,  yielding,  for  some  days,  only 
plans  (wild  ones)  ar.d  estimates.  The  roof  on  the  house  could  be 
made  all  that  a  living  author  of  irritable  nerves  could  desire:  silent 
as  a  tomb,  lighted  from  above;  but  it  would  cost  us  120^.  I  Impos- 
sible, seeing  that  we  may  be  turned  out  of  the  house  any  year!  So 
one  had  to  reduce  one's  schemes  to  the  altering  of  rooms  that  al- 
ready were.  By  taking  down  a  partition  and  instituting  a  fire-place 
where  no  fire-place  could  have  been  fancied  capable  of  existing,  it 
is  expected  that  some  bearable  approximation  to  that  ideal  room  in 
the  clouds  will  be  realised.  But  my  astonishment  and  despair  on 
finding  myself  after  three  months  of  what  they  call  here  '  regular 

1  Newspaper  phrase. 

*  Literally  and  arithmetically  true,  thou  noble  darling!  richer  to  me  than 
all  the  duchesses  of  the  creation ! 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  153 

mess,'  just  when  I  had  got  every  trace  of  the  work-people  cleared 
away,  and  had  said  to  myself,  '  Soul,  take  thine  ease,  or  at  all 
events  thy  swing,  for  thou  hast  carpets  nailed  down  and  furniture 
rubhed  for  many  days!'  just  when  I  was  beginning  to  lead  the 
dreaming,  reading,  dawdling  existence  which  best  suits  me,  and 
alone  suits  me  in  cold  weather,  to  find  myself  in  the  thick  of  a  new 
'mess:'  the  carpets,  which  I  had  nailed  down  so  well  with  my 
own  hands,  tumbled  up  again,  dirt,  lime,  whitewash,  oil,  paint, 
hard  at  work  as  before,  and  a  prospect  of  new  cleanings,  new  sew- 
ings, new  arrangements  stretching  away  into  eternity  for  anything 
I  see!  '  Well,'  as  my  Helen  says  (the  strangest  mixture  of  philoso- 
pher and  perfect  idiot  that  I  have  met  with  in  my  life),  '  when  one's 
doing  this,  one's  doing  nothing  else  anyhow!'  And  as  one  ought 
to  be  always  doing  something,  this  suggestion  of  hers  has  some  con- 
solation in  it. 

John  has  got  a  very  pleasant  lodging,  in  the  solitude  of  which  it 
is  to  be  hoped  he  may  discover  '  what  he  wanted  and  what  he 
wants.''  There  is  an  old  man  who  goes  about  singing  here,  and 
accompanying  himself  on  the  worst  of  fiddles,  who  has  a  song 
about  Adam  that  John  should  lend  all  his  ears  to:  it  tells  about  all 
his  comforts  in  Paradise,  and  then  adds  that  he  nevertheless  was  at 
a  loss;  to  be  sure, 

'  He  had  all  that  was  pleasant  In  life, 
But  the  all-wise,  great  Creator 
Saw  that  be  wanted  a  wife ! '  * 

But  you  could  form  no  notion  of  the  impressiveness  of  this  song 
unless  you  could  hear  the  peculiar  jerk  in  the  fiddle  in  the  middle 
of  the  last  line,  and  the  old  man's  distribution  of  emphasis  on  the 
different  words  of  it. 


'  Character  in  one  of  Zeehariah  Werner's  plays. 

'  In  a  quiet  street  near  Covent  Garden,  one  sunny  day,  with  a  considerable 
Straggle  of  audience,  I  found  this  artist  industriously  fiddling  and  singing  what 
seemed  to  be  a  succinct  doggerel  '  History  of  Man  '  (in  Paradise  as  yet).  Ar- 
tist was  not  very  old,  but  wanted  the  front  teeth;  was  rather  dirty,  had  a 
beard  of  three  weeks,  &c.,  and  for  the  rest  a  look  of  great  assiduity  and  ear- 
nestness in  his  vocation ;  insisting  on  longs  and  shorts,  with  clear  emphasis, 
by  fiddle  and  voice.    These  were  the  words  I  heard  (accentuated  as  here): — 

'  'E  (Adam  evidently)  'ad  'ounds  and  'osses  for  'unting, 

'E  'ad  all  things  was  pleasant  in  life; 
The  all-wise  great  CreatSr  [witJi  a  deep  scrape  of  the  fiddle] 

Saw  that  'e  wanted  a  wife.' 

Ay  de  mi!  how  strange  at  this  moment  (April  29,  1869)1 

7* 


154  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Here  is  come  a  son  of  Mrs.  Strachey's,  to  be  talked  to;  werch 
enough,  but  there  is  no  help  for  it.      I  do  not  think  you  shall  have 
such  reason  to  reproach  me  again,  now  that  the  ice  is  broken. 
Kind  regards  to  your  husband.     God  keep  you  all. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  fills  out  the  picture  of  the  '  domestic  earthquake'  in 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Stirling. 

'  Up  went  all  the  carpets  which  my  own  hands  had  nailed  down, 
in  rushed  the  troop  of  incarnate  demons,  bricklayers,  joiners,  white- 
washers,  &c.,  whose  noise  and  dirt  and  dawdling  had  so  lately 
driven  rae  to  despair.  Down  went  a  partition  in  one  room,  up 
went  a  new  chimney  in  another.  Helen,  instead  of  exerting  lierself 
to  stave  the  torrent  of  confusion,  seemed  to  be  struck  (no  wonder) 
with  temporary  idiotcy;  and  my  husband  himself,  at  sight  of  the 
uproar  he  had  raised,  was  all  but  wringing  his  hands  and  tearing 
his  hair,  like  the  German  wizard  servant  who  has  learnt  magic 
enough  to  make  the  broomstick  carry  water  for  him,  but  had  not 
the  counter  spell  to  stop  it.  Myself  could  have  sat  down  and  cried, 
so  little  strength  or  spirit  I  had  left  to  front  the  pressure  of  my  cir- 
cumstances. But  crying  makes  no  way;  so  I  went  about  sweeping 
and  dusting  as  an  example  to  Helen ;  and  held  my  peace  as  an  ex- 
ample to  my  husband,  who  verily,  as  Mazzini  says  of  him,  'loves 
silence  somewhat  platonically.'  It  was  got  through  in  the  end, 
this  new  hubbub;  but,  when  my  husband  proceeded  to  occupy  his 
new  study,  he  found  that  devil  a  bit  he  could  write  in  it  any  more 
than  beside  the  piano;  ' it  was  all  so  strange  to  him! '  The  fact  is, 
the  thing  he  has  got  to  write — his  long  projected  life  of  Cromwell 
— is  no  joke,  and  no  sort  of  room  can  make  it  easy,  and  he  has  been 
ever  since  shifting  about  in  the  saddest  way  from  one  room  to  an- 
other, like  a  sort  of  domestic  wandering  Jew!  He  has  now  a  fair 
chance,  however,  of  getting  a  settlement  effected  in  the  original 
library;  the  young  lady  next  door  having  promised  to  abstain  re- 
ligiously from  playing  till  two  o'clock,  when  the  worst  of  his  day's 
work  is  over.  Generous  young  lady!  But  it  must  be  confessed, 
the  seductive  letter  he  wrote  to  her  the  other  day  was  enough  to 
have  gained  the  heart  of  a  stone. 

Alas,  one  can  make  fun  of  all  this  on  paper;  but  in  practice  it  ia 
anything  but  fun,  I  can  assure  you.  There  is  no  help  for  it,  how- 
ever; a  man  cannot  hold  his  genius  as  a  sinecure. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  156 

LETTER  61. 

To  John  Welsh,  Esq.,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  Tuesday  night,  Nov.  28,  1843. 

Uncle  dear!— How  are  you?  I  kiss  you  from  ear  to  ear,  and  I 
love  you  very  considerably;  '  hoping  to  find  you  tlie  same.' 

The  spirit  moves  me  to  write  to  you  just  at  this  unlikeliest 
moment  (for  my  spirit  is  a  contradictory  spirit),  when  the  influenza 
has  left  me  with  scarce  faculty  enough  to  spell  words  of  more  than 
one  syllable.  I  caught  the  horrid  thing  a  week  ago,  by  destiny, 
through  no  indiscretion  of  my  own,  which  is  a  consolation  of  a  cer- 
tain sort.  For  it  does  form  a  most  '  aggravating '  ingredient  in 
one's  suffering  to  be  held  responsible  for  it;  to  be  told  '  this  comes 
of  your  going  to  such  a  place,  or  doing  such  a  thing;  if  you  had 
taken  my  advice '  &c.  «&c. !  But  this  time  I  had  been  going  no- 
where, doing  nothing  in  the  least  degree  questionable;  the  utmost 
lark  I  had  engaged  in  for  months  being  to  descend  at  Grange's 
(Babbie  knows  the  place)  in  the  course  of  my  last  drive  with  old 
Sterling,  and  there  refresh  exhausted  nature  with  a  hot  jelly,  and 
one  modest  sponge  cake.  It  would  have  been  no  harm,  I  think, 
had  the  influenza  taken,  instead  of  temperate  me,  a  personage  who 
sat  on  the  next  chair  to  us  at  the  said  Grange's,  and  before  whose 
bottomless  appetite  all  the  surrounding  platefuls  of  cakes  dis- 
appeared like  reek!  His  companion,  who  was  treating  him,  finally 
snatched  up  a  large  pound-cake,  cut  it  into  junks,  and  handed  him 
one  after  another  on  the  point  of  a  knife,  till  that  also  had  gone  ad 
plura.  The  dog,  for  it  was  with  a  dog  that  I  had  the  honour  of 
lunching  that  day,  appeared  to  consume  pound-cake  as  my  Pen- 
fiUan  grandfather  professed  to  eat  cheese,  'purely  for  diversion! ' 

By  the  way,  it  must  have  been  a  curious  sight  for  the  starved 
beggars,  who  hang  about  the  doors  of  such  places,  to  see  a  dog 
make  away  with  as  much  cake  iu  five  minutes  as  would  have  kept 
them  in  bread  for  a  week,  or  weeks!  Bad  enough  for  them  to  see 
human  beings,  neither  bonnier  perhaps,  nor  wiser,  nor,  except  for 
the  clothes  on  their  backs,  in  any  way  better  than  themselves, 
eating  hot  jelly,  and  such  like  delicacies,  while  they  must  go  with- 
out the  necessaries  of  life.  But  a  dog!  really  that  was  stretching 
the  injustice  to  something  very  like  impiety,  it  strikes  me. 

I  should  like  to  know  the  name  of  '  the  gentleman  as  belonged 
to  that  dog.'    He  seemed,  by  his  equipment  and  bearing,  a  person 


•106  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

holding  some  rank  in  the  world,  besides  the  generical  rank  of  fool; 
and  should  one  find  him  some  other  day  maintaining  in  Parliament 
that  '  all  goes  well,'  it  would  throw  some  light  on  the  worth  of  his 
opinion  to  know  that  his  dog  may  have  as  much  pound-cake  at 
Grange's  as  it  likes  to  eat! 

That  however  was  the  last  social  fact  which  I  witnessed,  having 
been  since  laid  up  at  home,  and  part  of  the  time  in  bed.  I  do  not 
know  why  the  solitude  of  a  bedroom  should  be  so  much  more  soli- 
tary than  the  solitude  of  other  places,  but  so  I  find  it.  When  my 
husband  is  at  work,  I  hardly  ever  see  his  face  from  breakfast  till 
dinner;  and  when  it  rains,  as  often  even  when  it  does  not  rain,  no 
living  soul  comes  near  me,  to  speak  one  cheerful  word;  yet,  so 
long  as  I  am  in,  what  the  French  call,  my  '  room  of  reception,'  it 
never  occurs  to  me  to  feel  lonely.  But,  send  me  to  my  bedroom 
for  a  day,  to  that  great  red  bed  in  which  I  have  transacted  so  many 
headaches,  so  many  influenzas!  and  I  feel  as  if  I  were  already  half 
buried !  Oh,  so  lonely !  as  in  some  intermediate  stage  betwixt  the 
living  world  and  the  dead ! 

I  sometimes  think  that,  were  I  to  remain  there  long,  I  should 
arrive  in  the  end  at  prophesying,  like  my  great  great  ancestors !  Soli- 
tude has  such  a  power  of  blending  past,  present,  and  future,  far  and 
near,  all  into  one  confused  jumblement,  in  wliich  I  wander  about 
like  a  disembodied  spirit,  that  has  put  off  the  beggarly  conditions 
of  time  and  space :  and  that  I  take  to  be  a  first  development  of  the 
spirit  of  prophecy  in  one. 

The  letters  of  Babbie  used  to  be  no  small  comfort  to  me  when  I 
was  ailing;  but  Babbie,  since  she  went  to  Scotland,  has  had  other 
things  to  do,  it  would  seem,  than  writing  to  me.  Babbie's  beauti- 
ful constancy  in  writing  has,  like  many  other  beautiful  things  of 
this  earth,  succumbed  to  the  force  of  circumstances.  Ah,  yes! 
what  young  lady  can  withstand  the  foi'ce  of  circumstances? 

Circumstances  are  the  young  lady's  destiny;  it  is  only  when  she 
has  lived  long  enough  to  have  tried  conclusions  with  the  real  destiny 
that  she  learns  to  know  the  difference,  and  learns  to  submit  herself 
peaceably  to  the  one,  and  to  say  to  the  other,  that  humbug  force  of 
circumstances,  'But  I  will!  Je  le  veux,m,oi!'  Oh,  it  is  the  grand 
happiness  of  existence  when  one  can  break  through  one's  circum- 
stances by  a  strong  will,  as  Samson  burst  the  cords  of  the  Philis- 
tines! Isn't  it,  uncle?  You  should  know,  if  any  man  does!  you 
who  are — permit  me,  I  mean  it  entirely  in  a  complimentary  sense — 
80  very,  very  wilful.    But  as  for  my  sweet  Babbie,  her  volition  is 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  157 

not  yet  adequate  to  breaking  the  pack-threads  of  the  Lilliputians, 
never  to  speak  of  cords  of  the  Philistines. 

And  meanwhile,  what  can  one  do  for  her,  but  just  what  poor 
Edward  Irving  counselled  certain  elders  to  do,  who  once  waited 
upon  him  at  Annan  to  complain  of  the  backslidings  of  their  minis- 
ter, and  ask  his  (Edward's)  advice  under  the  same.  Edward, 
having  listened  to  their  catalogue  of  enormities,  knit  his  brows, 
meditated  some  moments,  and  then  answered  succinctly,  '  My 
good  friends,  you  had  best  pray  for  him  to  the  Lord ! ' 

My  American  was  immensely  pleased  with  your  reception  of  him. 
That  is  the  only  American  whom  I  have  found  it  possible  to  be 
civil  to  this  great  long  while. 

Oh,  such  a  precious  specimen  of  the  regular  Yankee  I  have  seen 
since!  Coming  in  from  a  drive  one  forenoon,  I  was  informed  by 
Helen,  with  a  certain  agitation,  that  there  was  a  strange  gentle- 
man in  the  library;  '  he  said  he  had  come  a  long  way,  and  would 
wait  for  the  master  coming  home  to  dinner;  and  I  have  been,'  said 
she,  '  in  a  perfect  fidget  all  this  while,  for  I  remembered  after  he 
was  in  that  you  had  left  your  watch  on  the  table! ' 

I  proceeded  to  the  library  to  inspect  this  unauthorised  settler 
■with  my  own  eyes;  a  tall,  lean,  red-herriug-looking  man  rose  from 
Carlyle's  writing-table,  which  he  was  sitting  writing  at,  with  Car- 
lyle's  manuscripts  and  private  letters  all  lying  about;  and  running 
his  eyes  over  me,  from  head  to  foot,  said,  '  Oh,  you  are  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle,  are  you? '  An  inclination  of  the  head,  intended  to  be  hauteur 
itself,  was  all  the  answer  he  got.  '  Do  you  keep  your  health 
pretty  well,  Mrs.  Carlyle?'  said  the  wretch,  nothing  daunted,  that 
being  always  your  regular  Yankee's  second  word.  Another  incli- 
nation of  the  head,  even  slighter  than  the  first.  '  I  have  come  a 
great  way  out  of  my  road,'  said  he,  '  to  congratulate  Mr.  Carlyle  on 
his  increasing  reputation,  and,  as  I  did  not  wish  to  have  my  walk 
for  nothing,  I  am  waiting  till  he  comes  in;  but  in  case  he  should 
not  come  iu  time  for  me,  I  am  just  writing  him  a  letter,  here,  at 
his  own  table,  as  you  see,  Mrs.  Carlyle! '  Having  reseated  himself 
without  invitation  of  mine,  I  turned  on  my  heel  and  quitted  the 
room,  determined  not  to  sit  down  in  it  while  the  Yankee  stayed. 

But  about  half  an  hour  after  came  Darwin  and  Mr.  Wedgwood; 
and,  as  there  was  no  fire  in  the  room  below,  they  had  to  be  shown 
up  to  the  library,  where,  on  my  return,  I  found  the  Yankee 
still  seated  in  Carlyle's  chair,  very  actively  doing,  as  it  were,  the 
honours  of  the  house  to  them.    And  there  he  sat  upwards  of  an- 


168  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

other  hour,  not  one  of  us  addressing  a  word  to  him,  but  he  not  the 
less  thrusting  in  his  word  into  all  that  was  said. 

Finding  that  I  would  absolutely  make  no  answer  to  his  remarks, 
he  poured  in  upon  me  a  broadside  of  positive  questions. 

'Does  Mr.  Carljie  enjoy  good  health,  Mrs.  Carlyle?'  'No!' 
'  Oh,  he  doesn't!  What  does  he  complain  of,  Mrs.  Carlyle? '  '  Of 
everything!'  'Perhaps  he  studies  too  hard; — does  he  study  too 
hard,  Mrs.  Carlyle?'  'Who  knows?'  'How  many  hours  a  day 
does  he  study,  Mrs.  Carlyle?  '  '  My  husband  does  not  work  by  the 
clock.'  And  so  on — his  impertiaent  questions  receiving  the  most 
churlish  answers,  but  which  seemed  to  patter  off  the  rhinoceros- 
hide  of  him  as  though  they  had  been  sugar-plums.  At  length  he 
declared  that  Mr.  Carlyle  was  really  very  longof  coming;  to  which 
I  replied,  that  it  would  be  still  longer  before  he  came. 

Whereupon,  having  informed  himself  as  to  all  the  possible  and 
probable  omnibuses,  he  took  himself  away,  leaving  my  two  gentle- 
men ready  to  expire  of  laughter,  and  me  to  fall  upon  Helen  at  the 
first  convenient  moment  for  not  defending  better  '  the  wooden 
guardian  of  our  privacy.'  But  really  these  Yankees  form  a  con- 
siderable item  in  the  ennuis  of  our  mortal  life.  I  counted  lately 
fourteen  of  them  in  one  fortnight,  of  whom  Dr.  Russel  was  the 
only  one  that  you  did  not  feel  tempted  to  take  the  poker  to. 

If  Mr.  Carlyle's  '  increasing  reputation  '  bore  no  other  fruits  but 
congratulatory  Yankees  and  the  like,  I  should  vote  for  its  proceed- 
ing to  diminish  with  all  possible  despatch. 

Give  my  love  to  the  children.  A  hearty  kiss  to  Maggie  for  her 
long  letter;  for  which  I  was  also  charged  by  Mrs.  Wedgwood  to 
make  her  grateful  acknowledgments.  The  governess  was  plainly 
not  at  all  advanced  enough  for  Mrs.  Wedgwood's  children;  but 
Maggie's  letter  was  a  gratification  to  us  on  its  own  basis. 

And  now,  dear  uncle,  if  I  have  not  wearied  you,  I  have  wearied 
myself,  which  is  not  at  present  hard  to  do,  for  although  the  worst 
of  my  cold  is  over,  I  suppose,  I  am  as  weak  as  a  sparrow. 

I  wish  I  knew  how  you  exactly  are,  and  what  that  little  demo- 
ralised Babbie  is  doing;  for,  although  she  has  left  my  last  letter  un- 
answered for  nearly  three  weeks,  I  cannot  help  still  retaining  a 
certain  tenderness  for  her.     God  bless  you  all. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

Carlyle  is  over  head  and  ears  in  Cromwell — is  lost  to  humanity 
lor  the  time  being. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  159 

LETTER  63. 

To  Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries. 
5  Cheyne  Row:  Good  Friday,  March-April,  1844  [?]. 

My  dear  Jane, — It  is  late  to  thank  you  for  the  pretty  little  mats, 
later  than  even  an  unusual  amount  of  headaches  could  have  ex- 
cused, had  not  Mr.  C.  in  the  meanwhile  conveyed  my  '  favourable 
sentiments.'  He  has  probably  told  you  also  the  fact  of  my  absence 
for  two  weeks.  I  returned  from  Addiscombe  '  last  Saturday,  very 
little  set  up  either  in  mind  or  body  by  my  fortnight  of  dignified 
idleness.  The  coldness  of  the  weather  prevented  my  going  much 
into  the  open  air,  and  within  doors  the  atmosphere  at  Addiscombe 
is  much  more  chilly  than  at  Cheyne  Row;  but  it  is  morally  good 
for  one,  now  and  then,  to  fling  oneself  into  circumstances  in  which 
one  must  exert  oneself,  and  consume  one's  own  smoke,  even  under 
the  pressure  of  physical  ailment.  The  more  I  see  wealthy  estab- 
lishments, however,  the  less  I  wish  to  preside  over  one  of  my  own. 
The  superior  splendour  is  overbalanced  by  the  inferior  comfort, 
and  the  only  indisputable  advantage  of  a  large  fortune — the  power 
of  helping  other  people  with  it — all  these  rich  people,  however  good 
and  generous  their  hearts  may  have  been  in  the  beginning,  seem 
somehow  enchanted  into  never  availing  themselves  of. 

I  found  Carlyle  in  a  bad  way,  complaining  of  sore  throat  and 
universal  misery,  and  in  this  state  nothing  I  could  say  hindered 
him  from  w^alking  o\it  in  the  rain,  and  his  throat  became  so  much 
worse  during  the  night  that  I  was  afraid  he  was  going  to  be  as  ill 
as  when  poor  Becker  attended  him  at  Comel}^  Bank.  He  had 
asked  a  gentleman  to  dinner  on  Sunday,  and  two  more  to  tea — 
Dodds,  and  John  Hunter  of  Edinburgh,  and  two  more  came  'on 
the  voluntary  principle,'  and  all  these  men  I  had  to  receive  and 
entertain,  on  my  own  basis;  and  to  show  me,  I  suppose,  that  they 
were  not  too  much  mortified  in  finding  only  me,  the  unfortunate 
creatures  all  stayed  till  eleven  at  night.  Tlien  I  put  a  mustard 
blister  on  the  man's  throat,  and  put  him  to  bed  with  apprehensions 
enough;  but,  to  my  astonishment,  he  went  almost  immediately  to 
sleep,  and  slept  quite  peaceably  all  night,  and  next  morning  the 
throat  was  miraculously  mended.  We  kept  him  in  bed  to  break- 
fast, almost  by  main  force  however,  and  John  told  him  to  live  on 
slops  to  complete  his  cure;  but  he  told  John  in  very  decided  An- 

»  Visit  to  the  Barings. 


160  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

nandale  that  '  he  had  a  great  notion  he  would  follow  the  direction 
of  Nature  in  the  matter  of  eating  and  getting  up,  and  if  Nature 
told  him  to  dine  on  a  chop  it  would  be  a  clever  fellow  that  should 
persuade  him  not  to  do  it.' — [Remainder  lost.} 

LETTER  63. 

Tliis  summer  she  ventured  on  a  visit  to  Liverpool,  and  friends  in 
that  ueighbourood.  I  was  immovably  imprisoned  in  Cromwell  in- 
tricacit^s^  The  '  Wedgwood '  must  have  been  not  Hensleigh  (who 
was  familiar  here),  but  an  elder  brother  of  his:  amiable,  polite 
people  all. 

'  Mauvais  etat.' — Regu :  un  Pape  en  assez  mauvais  etat,'  certified 
the  French  ofiicer  at  some  post  in  the  Alps,  as  Pio  VII.  (?)  was 
"  passing  through  his  hands  on  way  to  Fontaiuebleau.  (Anecdote  of 
Cavaiguac's  to  us.) 

'  Came  to  pass,'  &c. — A  poor  Italian  painter,  pi'otegeoi  Mazzini's, 
living  in  some  back  street  of  Chelsea,  had  by  ill  luck  set  his  chim- 
ney on  tire;  but,  by  superhuman  efforts,  to  escape  the  penalty,  got 
it  quenched  in  time.  Still,  in  time,  as  he  hoped;  'when,'  said 
Mazzini,  reporting  in  Mazzini  English,  'there  came  to  pass  a  sweep* 
who  smelt  the  soot  of  him;  and  extorted  from  him  still  a  guinea  of 
hush  money — the  greedy  knave. 

'  111  na  gude '  had  become  proverbial  here,  on  the  following  ac- 
count. Emeritus,  ver)^  ancient  Auuandale  cattle  dealer,  to  topsman 
of  an  accidental  cattle-drove  on  the  highway  (as  reported  by  him- 
self to  William  Graham  and  me):  '  "Beautiful  cattle,"  c'ai  (quoth 
I);  "what  might  cattle  o'  that  kind  lie  ye  a  head?"  "lean  d'ye 
naither  ill  ua'  (nor)  guid!" '  (by  blabbing  in  your  market.) 

T.  Caiiyle,  Esq.,  CJielsea. 

Liverpool:  Monday,  June  25,  1844. 
Dearest, — It  was  impossible  for  me  even  to  aim  at  sending  you 
any  word  last  night,  for  in  fact  I  was  here  in  assez  mauvais  etat;  in 
other  words,  quite  beside  myself.  I  had  set  off  on  the  journey 
with  my  imagination  in  far  too  lively  a  state;  and  accordingly, 
before  I  had  gone  far,  'there  came  to  pass'  in  me  'something — 
what  shall  I  say? — strange,  upon  my  honour,'  and  by  the  time  we 
had  got  to  Rugby  I  was  in  all  the  agonies  of  sea-sickness,  without 
the  sea!  It  was  a  great  aggravation  being  cooped  up  in  that  small 
carriage,  so  ill,  with  a  man  I  knew  so  slightly  as  Mr.  Wedgwood. 
He  behaved  very  well;  'abstained  from  no  attentions,'  and  at  the 
same  time  made  no  fuss,  but  still  I  should  have  preferred  being 
beside  an  entire  stranger.  At  Birmingham  he  pressed  me  to  have 
some  coffee;  but  '  horrible  was  the  idea  to  me,'  both  of  that,  and  of 
the  modest  repast  which  I  had  in  my  own  bag,     I  took  instead  a 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  161 

bottle  of  soda-water,  iu  hopes  it  would  briug  the  convulsions  of  my 
stomach  to  a  crisis :  but  it  did  me  '  neither  ill  nor  gude ;'  and  the 
hope  I  had  been  cherishing,  of  being  let  lie  for  half  an  hour  on  ni}^ 
back  in  the  ladies  '  waiting  room,  also  went  the  way  of  most  of  our 
human  hopes,  the  place  being  so  crowded  and  the  smells  from  the 
dining-room  so  pungent  that  I  was  glad  to  return  to  the  carriage. 

Mr.  Wedgwood  kept  insisting  to  the  last  moment  that  I  ought  to 
stop  at  Birmingham,  but  I  knew  better  than  that.  Just  as  the  train 
was  starting,  the  clerk  of  the  station  (at  least  Mr.  Wedgwood  took 
him  for  such)  jumped  up  to  the  window,  touched  by  compassion 
for  mj''  ghastly  appearance,  and  said  to  me  encouragingly:  '  I  have 
told  the  guard  to  attend  to  you,  ma'am,  and  take  you  out  at  any 
station  where  you  may  wish  to  be  left!'  When  Mr.  Wedgwood 
went  away  I  had  got  over  the  worst  of  it,  and  could  laugh  at  his 
proposal  to  ask  '  one  of  some  Quakers  whom  he  had  seen  in  a  front 
carriage  to  take  his  place  in  case  of  ray  fainting  all  by  myself.' 
What  advantage  could  there  be  in  providing  me  with  a  Quaker,  in 
preference  to  all  others? 

The  rest  of  the  journey  was  got  over  without  any  more  faintings, 
and  I  found  Helen  and  Maggie  at  the  station.  But,  worn  out  with 
so  much  sickness,  and  having  taken  nothing  from  breakfast  time 
but  the  soda-water,  you  may  fancy  I  was  iu  no  state  to  resist  the 
horror  I  had  been  feeling  all  the  way  at  the  notion  of  entering  this 
house  again ' ;  and  when  the  rest  came  all  about  me  in  the  passage, 
instead  of  being  able  to  feel  glad  to  see  them,  something  twisted  it- 
self about  my  throat  and  across  my  breast  as  if  I  Avere  going  to  be 
strangled,  and  I  could  get  no  breath  without  screaming.  In  fact,  I 
suppose  I  had  been  in  what  fhey  call  hysterics,  for  the  first  time, 
and  I  hope  the  last,  in  m}'  life;  for  it  is  a  very  ugly  thing,  I  can 
tell  you — must  be  just  the  next  thing  to  being  hanged.  But  it  is 
all  over  now;  and  my  uncle  was  so  very  good  to  me,  he  who  so 
hates  all  that  sort  of  thing,  that  j^ou  would  have  felt,  as  I  do  this 
morning,  quite  grateful  to  him.  The  girls,  of  course,  were  equally 
good,  but  their  patience  was  more  natural.  I  have  got  Alick's 
room,  he  having  gone  out  to  sleep,  and  it  is  all  made  as  nice  as  pos- 
sible for  me;  and,  though  I  did  not  get  much  sleep  last  night,  I 
daresay  I  shall  get  on  well  enough  in  that  department  when  I  am 
once  quieted. 

Maggie  brought  me  the  prettiest  little  breakfast  to  my  bedroom: 
a  little  plate  of  strawberries  and  all  sorts  of  dainties,  that  looked 

'  Bringing  back  remembrance  of  her  mother. 


162  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

quite  like  Templand.  It  was  right  to  come;  though  yesterday  one 
would  have  said,  I  had  really  run  away  from  you,  and  was  spendr 
lug  money  very  distractedly  for  the  purpose  of  getting  myself  tor- 
mented.  Now  that  I  am  up  I  feel  really  as  well  as  before  I  left 
London,  so  do  not  be  anyways  anxious  about  me. 

Your  own 

J.  C. 

LETTER  64. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Liverpool:  June  27,  1844. 

Thanks,  dearest,  for  your  note  and  the  newspaper,  which  was  the 
best  part  of  my  breakfast  this  morning — not  that  I  had  '  lost  my 
happityte.''  I  slept  much  better  last  night,  in  spite  of  cocks  of 
every  variety  of  power,  a  dog,  and  a  considerable  rumblement  of 
carts.  But  the  evil  of  these  things  is  not  doubled  and  tripled  for 
me  by  the  reflectian  that  you  were  being  kept  awake  by  them ;  and 
what  individual  evil  there  was  in  them  could  not  get  the  better  of 
my  excessive  weariness.  I  feel  as  if  the  out-of-door  sounds  should 
not  lay  hold  of  my  imagination  for  all  the  time  I  am  likely  to  be 
exposed  to  them;  and  within  doors  all  is  quiet  enough,  and  they  let 
me  go  to  bed  whenever  I  like. 

They  are  all  as  kind  and  considerate  as  possible — even  my  uncle, 
who  did  not  use  to  make  any  practical  admission  that  there  was 
such  a  thing  as  irritable  nerves  in  the  world.  I  suppose  his  own 
illness  has  taught  him  sympathy  in  this  matter.  I  find  him  looking 
fully  better  than  I  expected,  and  he  does  not  seem  to  me  worse  at 
walking  than  when  I  saw  him  last;  his  speech  is  the  worst  thing, 
so  thick  that  I  have  great  difficulty  in  catching  what  he  says  with- 
out making  him  repeat;  but  this  seems  as  much  the  result  of  the 
loss  of  his  teeth,  which  lie  has  not  supplied,  as  of  anything  else. 
They  complain  much  of  his  temper;  but  I  have  not  seen  the  slight- 

1  A  patient  in  the  York  Asylum  (country  attorney,  I  was  told),  a  small,  shriv- 
elled, elderly  man,  sat  dining  among  others,  being  perfectly  harmless,  at  the 
governor's  table  there.  He  ate  pretty  fairly;  but  every  minute  or  two  incon- 
solably  flung  down  his  knife  and  fork,  stretched  out  his  palms,  and  twisting 
his  poor  countenance  into  utter  woe,  gave  a  low  pathetic  howl;  '  I've  la-ast  mi 
happetaytel'  The  wretchedest  scarecrow  of  humanity  I  almost  ever  saw, 
who  had  found  his  '  immeasurable  of  misery'  in  that  particular  'loss  '!  Date 
would  be  autumn  1819;  my  first  visit  to  England— not  farther  south  than  York 
as  yet. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  163 

est  trace  of  ill-temper  in  him  since  I  came,  except  for  a  moment 
yesterday  during  dinner,  when  he  said  some  very  sharp  words  to 
Jeannie,  who  provoked  them  in  the  first  instance,  and  resented  them 
in  the  second,  in  a  way  that  quite  astonished  me,  who  had  never 
seen  her  otherwise  than  imperturbably  good-natured.  I  am  afraid 
my  Babbie  has  been  deteriorating  in  these  latter  times;  she  looks 
most  painfully  indolent  and  j'oung  ladyish.  I  have  got  into  no  free 
communication  with  her  j-et;  alone  with  me,  she  is  the  same  gentle, 
sweet  Babbie  as  ever,  but  impenetrable.  I  shall  find  out  what  is  at 
the  bottom  of  all  this  by-and-by.  Helen  is  grown  more  like  my 
aunt  Jeannie  in  all  respects:  a  higher  praise  one  cannot  give  her. 
The  one  that  pleases  me  least  of  all  is  Alick;  his  Toryism  is  per- 
fectly insupportable  and  seems  to  be  awakening  reaction  even  in 
my  uncle.  Even  tlie  Letter-business  '  Alick  defends,  because  it  is 
the  Minister's  pleasure.  Not  so  my  uncle,  for  whom  j^our  letter  had 
set  the  thing  in  its  right  light;  and  who  honestlj^  confesses,  with 
all  devotion  to  the  powers  that  be,  that  '  where  such  things  are  do- 
ing there  must  come  a  breakdown. ' 

I  have  not  written  to  Mrs.  Paulet  yet.  A  letter  from  Geraldine, 
■which  was  lying  for  me  here,  informed  me  that  she  (Mrs.  Paulet) 
had  been  salivated  through  mistake;  her  doctor,  in  meaning  to  give 
her  ipecacuanha  four  times  a  day,  had  been  giving  her  mercury  to 
that  extent.  Whereupon  Geraldine  observes,  '  if  she  were  an  ugly 
woman  one  would  not  mind  it  so  much.' 

I  hope  you  will  not  find  the  silence  too  delicious;  there  is  a 
moderation  to  be  observed  in  all  things.  I  wish  you  to  be  neither 
quite  miserable  or  quite  content  in  my  absence;  at  all  events,  as 
long  as  you  are  finding  the  silence  a  benefit  I  shall  take  precious 
good  care  to  keep  away,  as  I  like  to  have  my  human  speech  duly 
appreciated. 

Give  my  kind  remembrances  to  Helen,'  and  you  may  tell  her,  as 
a  thing  she  will  fully  appreciate  the  distress  of,  that  on  the  way 
here  I  got  myself  all  covered  over  with  oil-paint,  Heaven  knows 
how;  and  it  has  taken  nearly  a  quart  of  turpentine  to  clean  me 
(my  clothes,  I  mean). 

The  little  Scotchwoman  I  sent  here  welcomed  me  as  if  I  were 
come  on  purpose  to  see  her;  she  gives  great  satisfaction,  and  is 
grown  into  a  perfect  beauty. 

'  Sir  James  Graham's  opening  of  the  Mazzini  correspondence,  for  behoof  of 
Pope  and  Kaiser,  on  which  I  had  written  something  to  the  Times. 
*  The  servant. 


164  LETTERS  AND  ^lEMORIALS  OF 

Do  not,  I  beg  of  you,  work  too  hard. 

How  provoking  about  the  fly ! ' 

Bless  you. 


J.  C. 


LETTER  65. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Liverpool:  July  1, 1844. 

Dearest, — I  was  in  considerable  perplexity  how  I  should  manage 
on  Sunday;  for  you  cannot  displease  my  uncle  more  than  by  de- 
clining to  go  to  church.  As  early  as  Saturday  morning  he  was  ques- 
tioning me  as  to  wliich  church  I  meant  to  go.  By  way  of  compro- 
mise, I  murmured  something  about  James  Martineau. 

Providence,  however,  kindly  took  the  matter  into  its  own  hand, 
and  arranged  it  so  that  I  stayed  at  home  and  yet  gave  no  offence. 
For  -when  the  Simday  morning  came,  I  was  sufBcieutly  ill  of  head- 
ache to  convince  all  beholders  that  I  really  could  not  get  up;  and 
if  I  could  not  get  up,  it  followed  that  I  could  not  go  to  church.  I 
rose  before  dinner,  in  time  to  address  your  newspaper,  and  to-day 
I  am  quite  well  again — that  is  to  say,  as  well  as  one  can  be,  living, 
as  I  feel  to  be  doing  just  now,  in  a  sort  of  exhausted  receiver.  The 
manner  of  being  in  this  house  is  really — '  what  shall  I  say?  strange 
upon  my  honour.'  The  preparation  and  deliberation,  and  unweary- 
ing earnestness  with  which  they  all  dress  themselves  three  times  a 
day,  is  a  continual  miracle  for  me,  combined  as  it  is  with  total 
want  of  earnestness  about  everything  else  in  heaven  or  earth.  I 
declare  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  these  girls,  so  good  naturally,  so 
gentle,  and  even  intelligent;  and  in  this  absurd  way  '  sailing  down 
the  stream  of  time  into  the  ocean  of  eternity,  for  Christ's  sake. 
Amen.' '  As  for  Babbie,  she  is  sunk  into  the  merest  young  lady  of 
them  all.  Her  indolence  is  absolutely  transcendental,  and  I  cannot 
flatter  myself  that  it  is  the  reaction  of  any  secret  grief;  the  only 
confession  which,  with  all  my  surprising  ^  quality,  I  have  been  able 
to  draw  from  her  is  that  '  one  ought  really  to  have  a  little  excite- 
ment in  one's  life,  and  there  is  none  to  be  got  here.'  How  grateful 
I  ought  to  be  to  you,  dear,  for  having  rescued  me  out  of  the  young- 


1  Had  driven  home  from  the  station,  I  suppose,  without  me.?— for  want  of  a 
■word  or  hint  in  time. 

»  Mythical  grace,  before  meals,  of  an  embarrassed  and  bashful  man:  '  Oh, 
Lord,  we're  a'  sailing,'  &c. 

'  Chinese  personage,  in  the  Two  Fair  Cousins,  who  sees  almost  Into  mill- 
Btones. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  165 

lady  sphere!  It  is  a  thing  that  I  cannot  contemplate  with  the 
proper  toleration. 

1  wonder  how  you  are  to-day;  and  if  you  made  out  your  visit 
yesterday?  I  am  sure  you  are  working  too  hard  without  the  inter- 
ruptions of  your  Necessary  Evil.'  Do  bid  Helen,  with  my  kind 
regards,  get  you  a  good  large  fowl  and  boil  it  in  four  quarters. 

Extracts  from  Liverpool  letters. 

July  2. — Indeed,  dear,  you  look  to  be  almost  unhappy  enough 
already!  I  do  not  want  you  to  suffer  physically,  only  morally,  you 
understand,  and  to  hear  of  your  having  to  take  coffee  at  night  and 
all  that  gives  me  no  wicked  satisfaction,  but  makes  me  quite  un- 
happy. It  is  curious  liow  mucli  more  uncomfortable  I  feel  without 
you,  when  it  is  I  who  am  going  away  from  you,  and  not,  as  it  used 
to  be,  you  gone  away  from  me.  I  am  always  wondering  since  I 
came  here  how  I  can,  even  in  my  angriest  mood,  talk  about  leaving 
you  for  good  and  all;  for  to  be  sure,  if  I  were  to  leave  you  to-day 
on  that  principle,  I  should  need  absolutely  to  go  back  to-morrow  to 
see  how  you  were  taking  it. 

July  5. — Mj'  uncle  would  not  be  so  bad  with  his  Toryism  if  it 
were  not  for  Alick  egging  him  on.  His  feelings  as  an  honest  man 
are  always  struggling  against  his  prejudices;  but  the  very  misgiv- 
ings he  has  about  the  infallibility  of  his  part}'  make  him  only  an 
angrier  partisan,  and  nothing  can  be  more  provoking  than  the 
things  he  occasionally  says.  For  instance,  he  told  me  yesterday 
that  '  Sir  James  Graham  liad  said  he  only  opened  one  of  Mazzini's 

letters;  if  Mazzini  said  he  opened  more  he  was  a  d d  lying  rascal, 

and  everybody  knows  whether  to  believe  the  word  of  a  gentleman 
like  Sir  James  or  of  a  beggarly  refugee  turned  out  of  his  own 

country  for  misconduct.     D these  people!     If  they  got  leave 

to  find  a  shelter  here,  what  right  had  they  to  insult  tlie  Queen 
by  insulting  her  allies?'  Fancy  me  swallowing  all  that  without 
answer!  To  be  sure,  the  only  alternative  was  to  hold  my  peace 
altogether,  or  produce  a  collision  that  must  have  ended  in  my  call- 
ing a  coach. 

July  11,  Seaforth  Housed — Mrs.  Paulet  makes  an  excellent  hostess 

>  Herself— the  dear  one  1 

2  Seaforth  House  is  three  miles  or  so  down  river  from  Liverpool,  Bootle- 
ward;  a  bare  kind  of  big  mansion  (once  Gladstone  senior's),  in  these  years 
rented  by  the  Paulets,  extensive  merchant  people.  Paulet  was  a  good,  clever- 
ish  Genoese ;  Mrs.  Paulet,  an  early  friend  of  Geraldine  Jewsbury,  a  strange, 


166  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

(morally  speaking).  Her  menage  is  certainly  susceptible  of  improve- 
ment, especially  in  the  article  of  cooking;  but  one  would  prefer 
living  on  any  sort  of  victuals  not  poisoned  in  such  pleasant  com- 
pany to  having  preparations  of  these  and  stupidity  tliercAvith. 

A  Mrs.  D. ,  whom  you  saw  once,  came  the  night  before  last  to 
stay  while  I  stayed.  She  seems  a  sensible  gentlewoman  enough — a 
Unitarian  without  the  doctrines.'  But  I  could  not  comprehend  at 
first  why  she  had  been  brought,  till  at  last  Mrs.  Paulet  gave  me  to 
understand  that  she  was  there  to  use  up  Miss  N.''  '  Not/  she  said, 
'  that  ni}^  sister  is  an  illiberal  person,-  though  she  believes  in  Christ, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  She  is  quite  easy  to  live  with;  but  it  will 
be  pleasanter  for  herself  as  well  as  for  us  that  she  should  have  some- 
body to  talk  with  of  her  own  sort — a  Catliolic  or  Unitarian,  she 
doesn't  mind  which.'  After  this  initiation  I  can  hardly  look  with 
gravity  on  these  two  shaking  tlieir  heads  into  one  another's  faces  and 
bum-bumming  away  on  religious  topics,  as  they  flatter  themselves. 

You  ask  where  I  shall  be  on  my  birthday.  My  dear,  in  what 
view  do  you  ask?  To  send  me  something?  Now  I  positively  for- 
bid you  to  send  me  auytliiiig  but  a  letter  willi  3'our  blessing.  It  is 
a  positive  worry  for  you,  the  buying  of  things.  And  what  is  the 
chief  pleasure  of  a  birthday  present?  Simply  that  it  is  evidence  of 
one's  birthday  having  been  remembered ;  and  now  I  know,  without 
aujr  bothering  present,  that  you  have  been  thinkino;  of  it,  mv  poor 
Good, 2  for  ever  so  long  before!  So  write  me  a  longer  letter  than 
usual,  and  leave  presents  to  tliose  whose  affection  stands  more  in 
need  of  vulgar  demonstration  tlian  j^ours  does. 

July  15,  Seaforth. — Oh,  my  darling,  I  want  to  give  you  an  em- 
phatic kiss  rather  than  to  write!  But  you  are  at  Chelsea  and  I  at 
Seaforth,  so  the  thing  is  clearly  impossible  for  the  moment.  But  I 
will  keep  it  for  you  till  I  come,  for  it  is  not  with  words  that  I  can 
thank  you  adequately  for  that  kindest  of  birthday  letters  and  its 
small  enclosure — touching  little  key!  I  cried  over  it  and  lamihed 
over  it,  and  could  not  suiBcieutly  admire  the  graceful  idea — an  idea 
which  might  come  under  the  category  of  what  Cavaignac  used  to 
call  'idees  de  femme,'  supposed  to  be  unattainable  by  the  coarser 
sex!  And  I  have  put  the  little  key  to  my  chain  and  shall  wear  it 
there  till  I  return. 


indolently  ingenious,  artistic,  &c. ,  creature,  very  reverent  of  \is  at  this  time. 
— T.  C. 

1  A  Lais  without  the  beauty.— C.  Lamb.  2  >irs.  Paulet's  sister. 

5  Good  is  masculine  for  Goody— my  frequent  name  for  her.— T.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CAELYLE.  167 

LETTER  66. 

John  Forster,  Esq.,  58  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Chelsea:  Wednesday,  July  1844. 
My  dear  Mr.  Forster, — I  understand  from  my  liusband  that,  iu 
the  romantic  generosity  of  your  own  heart,  you  offered  him  some 
books  for  me,  to  carry  liome.  '  Ah! '  Had  you  made  the  proposal 
to  him  with  a  loaded  pistol  at  his  breast,  he  might  perhaps  have 
acceded  ;  but  merely  in  the  way  of  social  politeness,  and  for 
virtue's  own  reward,  the  desperate  man  that  should  have  stopped 
him  on  the  streets  with  the  offer  of  a  large  paper  trunk  would  have 
had  just  the  same  chance  of  being  listened  to.  He  told  you,  and 
had  the  effrontery  to  repeat  the  same  excuse  to  myself,  that  I 
seemed  to  have  more  books  about  me  than  I  could  read.  "Women, 
they  say,  will  alwaj's  give  a  varnish  of  duty  to  their  inclinations. 
I  wonder  whether  men  are  any  better  in  always  giving  to  their  dis- 
inclinations a  varnish  of  justice?  What  he  there  told  you  was  true 
no  doubt;  but  one  of  those  insidious  one-sided  truths  which  in  the 
practical  application  is  equivalent  to  a  positive  falsehood.  I  have 
more  books  in  the  house  at  this  moment  than  I  can  read;  but  what 
did  that  signify  since  I  have  at  the  same  time  none  that  I  can  read? 
I  have  read  Milford,  partially  read  Kohle;  Mrs.  Trollope  is  impos- 
sible, and  several  others  that  I  have  impossible.  In  fact  I  am  very  ill 
off;  and  if  you  will  still  send  me  some  books  b}^  the  parcels  de- 
livery, they  will  be  a  godsend.  When  I  go  to  the  London  librar}', 
besides  it  being  very  difficult  for  me  to  get  so  far,  that  old  white 
owl  bothers  me  so  with  his  assiduous  conversation — wliich,  God 
knows,  one  does  not  go  there  for — that  I  quite  lose  all  faculty  of 
choice,  and  end  in  bringing  away  any  trasli  he  puts  into  my  hands, 
generally  something  which  he  considers  adapted  for  a  lad_y,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  not  likely  to  be  inquired  for  by  his  other  ladies.  So 
you  may  fancy.     Have  patience  with  the  trouble  I  give  you. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlylb. 

LETTER  67. 

This  was  my  first  visit  to  the  Grange — alas,  alas,  how  tragic-look- 
ing now!     I  perfectly  remember  the  bustle  tiiere  about  the  belated 
Fostman.  and  my  letter  lionie — which  I  at  length  wrote  in  pencil, 
stayed  about  a  week.     Proof-sheets  of  Election  to  the  Long  Par- 


168  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

liamcnt;  visit  to  Wiucliester,  &c. — 'Fleming'  is  as  yet  the  incon- 
solable attached  of  the  late  Charles  BuUer;  afterwards  the  gossiping 
Fribble  well  known  in  '  fashionable  '  society.  '  Plattuauer '  she  had 
just  rescued  from  a  mad-house,  and  was  (with  heroic  and  successful 
charity)  quite  taming  here  into  his  normal  state:  our  perfectly 
peaceable  guest  for  about  a  fortnight!  Dismissed,  launched  again, 
with  outfit,  &c.,  after  my  return. — T.  C. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle,  The  Orange. 

Chelsea:  Sept.  10  (?),  1844. 

Dearest, — Your  note  is  as  lively  a  little  image  of  discomfort  as 
one  could  -wish  to  have  before  coffee.  Now,  however,  you  have 
eaten  and  slept,  and  seen  the  Lady  Harriet;  and  'all,'  I  hope,  'will 
be  well,'  as  Plattnauer  says. 

For  me,  I  am  worried  to  the  last  degree ;  the  painter,  preparatory 
to  the  paperer,  instead  of  rendering  himself  here  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing, has  kept  me  expecting  him  till  now — just  when  I  am  going  up 
to  town  to  'see  after  my  affairs.'  Yesterday  was  very  wearj'. 
Mazzini  came,  then  Darwin,  then  Mr.  Fleming,  bringing  me  Maz- 
zini's  bust,  whicli  is  a  horror  of  horrors  (oh,  no!  you  certainly  shall 
not  sit  to  that  man).  They  were  all  mortally  stupid,  especially  Mr. 
Fleming,  of  whom  one  might  have  carried  the  simile  of  the  Duck 
iu  Thunder  to  that  still  more  offensive  one  of  '  Jenkin's  hen.' 
Plattnauer  came  home  in  the  midst,  in  a  state  of  violent  talkative- 
ness— the  whole  thing  looked  like  Bedlam.  At  last  they  all  went 
away ;  and  we  ate  our  boiled  mutton  in  silence,  somewhat  sullen. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  take  a  walk  with  him,  and  met  little 

B a  few  steps  from  the  door,  who  accompanied  us  in  the  walk, 

and  came  in  to  tea  and  sat  there  gabbing  till  ten  o'clock.  Platt- 
nauer was  seized  with  such  a  detestation  of  him  that  he  could  not 
stay  in  the  room  for  ten  minutes  together.  He  told  me  he  had 
been  '  strongly  tempted  to  seize  a  poker  and  dash  his  brains  out, 
and  so  put  an  end  to  his  eternal  clack  in  that  way,  since  nothing 
else  could  stop  it.'  I  suggested  to  him  somewhat  sternly  that  it 
did  not  become  one  visitor  in  a  house  to  dash  out  the  brains  of 
another — a  statement  which  he  at  once  perceived  and  admitted  the 
justice  of. 

And  now  good-bye,  Mr.  Good;  for  I  have  de  grandes  chases  d 
faire;  and  nothing  since  yesterday  to  write  about  that  cannot  be 
put  into  three  words — God  bless  you. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  169 

LETTER  68. 
-  -/ 

To  Tliomm  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Orange. 

Chelsea;  Tuesday,  Sept.  13, 1844. 

Dearest, — I  have  absolutely  no  composure  of  soul  for  writing 
just  now.  The  fact  is,  I  have  undertaken  far  more  this  tinie  than 
human  discretion  would  have  dreamt  of  putting  into  one  week; 
knowing  your  horror  of  sweeps  and  carpet-beaters  and  'all  that 
sort  of  thing,'  I  would,  in  my  romantic  self-devotion,  sweep  all  the 
chimneys  and  lift  all  the  carpets  before  you  came;  and  had  you 
arrived  this  day,  as  you  first  proposed,  you  would  have  found  me 
still  in  a  regular  mess,  threatening  to  thicken  into  'immortal 
smash.'  But  by  Thursday  I  hope  to  have  'got  everything  satisfac- 
torily arranged,'  as  poor  Platlnauer  is  always  saying. 

And  there  have  been  so  many  other  things  to  take  me  up,  besides 
the  sweeps,  &c.  Almost  every  evening  somebody  has  been  here. 
The  evening  of  the  Bullers'  departure  Jeukin's  Hen '  came,  pale  as 
a  candle,  with  a  red  circle  round  each  eye  which  was  very  touching; 
— he  had  evidently  been  crying  himself  quite  sick  and  sore.  Lady 
Lewis'  had  invited  him  to  dine  with  her;  but,  'he  could  not  go 
there,  he  could  not  eat  any  dinner,  he  was  afraid  to  go  home  to  his 
own  silent  house — he  thought  I  could  understand  his  feelings,  and 
su  had  come  to  pass  the  evening  with  me.'  "What  a  gift  of  under- 
standing people's  feelings  I  am  supposed  to  have — m&i!  Oh,  my 
dear,  the  cat  produced  two  kittens  in  your  bed  this  morning,  and 
we  have  drowned  them — and  now  she  also  thinks  I  can  understand 
her  feelings,  and  is  coming  about  my  feet  mewing  in  a  way  that 
quite  wrings  my  heart.  Poor  thing!  I  never  saw  her  take  on  so 
badly  before. 

Well !  but  on  Saturday  night  Helen  had  just  gone  to  seek  sugar 
for  the  tea  when  a  rap  came,  which  I  preferred  answering  myself 
to  allowing  Plattnauer  to  answer  it,  and — oh,  Heavens! — what 
should  I  see  in  the  dark  opening?  A  little  human  phenomenon,  in 
a  triple  cornered  hat!  Bishop  *  *  *  again!  I  screamed,  a  good, 
genuine,  horrified  scream!  Whereupon  he  stept  in — and,  as  the 
devil  would  have  it — on  my  bad  toe!  and  then  I  uttered  a  series  of 
screams  which  made  Plattnauer  savage  with  him  for  the  rest  of  the 

1  Fleming.    To  '  die  tlie  death  of  Jenkin's  hen  '  expressed,  in  Annandale. 
the  maziuium  of  pusillanimity. 
»  The  late  C.  Buller's  aunt. 
I.-8 


170  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

evening.  He  had  come  up  to  seek  himself  a  new  assistant,  the  old 
one  being  promoted.  There  is  no  end  to  his  calls  to  London!  But 
he  was  plainly  mortally  afraid  of  Plattnauer,  who  as  good  as  told 
him  he  was  '  one  of  the  wind-bags,'  and  will  not  trouble  us  again  I 
think  while  he  is  here. 

Yesterday  afternoon  came  Henry  Taylor,  but  only  for  a  few 
minutes;  he  had  been  unexpectedly  'turned  adrift  on  our  shores, 
and  could  only  wait  till  a  Wandsworth  steamer  should  come  up. 
I  was  very  kind  to  him,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  could  have  kissed 
me  for  being  glad  to  see  him — Oh,  how  odd !  I  put  on  my  bonnet, 
and  went  with  him  to  the  boat;  and  he  complimented  me  on  going 
out  without  gloves  or  shawl.  I  was  the  first  woman  he  had  ever 
found  in  this  world  who  could  go  out  of  her  house  without  at  least 
a  quarter  of  an  hour's  preparation!  They  have  taken  a  house  at 
Mortlake,  near  Richmond. 

But  there  is  no  possibility  of  telling  you  all  the  things  I  have  to 
tell  at  this  writing.  They  will  keep  till  you  come.  Onlj'  let  me 
not  forget  to  say  there  is  an  American  letter  come  for  John,  which 
I  send  on  by  this  day's  post. 

Your  letter,  written  apparently  on  Saturdaj'',  was  not  read  by  me 
till  yesterday  afternoon;  the  postman  came  so  long  after  twelve 
when  I  had  been  under  the  imperative  necessity  to  go  out.  Give 
my  love  to  Mr.  Baring. 

Ever  your  distracted 

Goody. 

LETTER  69. 

To  Mrs.  Russell,  ThornMl. 

Nov.  5,  1844. 
My  dearest  Mrs.  Russell, — I  suspect  that  my  Man-of-Genius- 
Husband  has  forgotten  old  Mary  as  completely  as  if  she  had  never 
been  born,  Oliver  Cromwell  having,  as  the  servants  at  Craigen- 
puttock  used  to  say,  'taken  the  whole  gang  to  himsel'.'  The  wife 
of  Sir  Fowell  Buxton  lias  been  many  times  heard  to  wish  that  the 
Blacks  (her  husband's  fixed  idea)  were  all  at  the  bottom  of  the  Red 
Sea;  and  I  am  afraid  I  have  often  been  undutiful  enough,  of  late 
months,  to  wish  the  memory  of  Cromwell  at  the  bottom  of  Some, 
thing  where  I  might  hear  less  about  it.  It  is  at  the  bottom  of  Rub- 
bish enough,  I  am  sure,  to  judge  from  the  tremendous  ransacking 
of  old  folios  and  illegible  manuscripts  which  Carlyle  is  still  going 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  171 

on  with ;  but  still  he  manages  to  bring  it  up,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  till  I  begin  to  be  Aveary  of  him  (the  Protector),  great  man 
though  he  was.  But  as  everything  comes  to  an  end  with  patience, 
he  will  probably  get  himself  written  at  last,  and  printed,  and  pub- 
lished; and  then  my  husband  will  return  to  a  consciousness  of  his 
daily  life,  and  I  shall  have  peace  from  the  turmoils  of  the  Common- 
wealth. For,  if  Carlyle  thinks  of  nothing  else  but  his  Book  whilst 
he  is  writing  it,  one  has  always  this  consolation,  that  he  is  the  first 
to  forget  it  when  it  is  written. 

Meanwhile,  to  return  to  old  Mary,  I  send  an  order  for  three 
sovereigns  from  my  own  '  pin  money'  (which  is  ample  enough)  to 
keep  her  poor  old  soul  and  bod}'  together  a  little  longer.  And  I 
shall  not  tell  Carlyle  that  I  have  done  so,  as  I  know  it  would  vex 
him  that  he  should  have  needed  to  be  '  put  in  mind;' — so  that,  if  he 
sends  another  supply  shortly,  you  will  understand  the  mystery  of 
this  double  sending. 

I  wonder  how  you  ai'e  all  at  Thornhill.  It  seems  so  long  since  I 
have  heard  a  word  of  news  from  that  place,  which  I  think  of  more 
than  any  other  in  the  world ;  I  shall  hear  from  you  one  of  these 
days,  and  understand  that  '  the  smallest  contributions  will  be  grate- 
fully received.' 

I  had  a  letter  from  Liverpool  a  week  ago,  and  all  was  going  on 
well  there — my  uncle  better  than  he  had  beeu  some  little  while  be- 
fore. Jeannie  and  Maggie  are  at  Auchtertool  with  Walter,  leading 
a  very  good-for-nothing  life  there  according  to  their  own  account 
of  it — engaged  in  perpetual  tea-driukings  with  '  people  whom  they 
can  take  no  pleasure  in,'  and  'making  themselves  amends  in  sit- 
ting at  home  with  their  feet  on  the  fender,  talking  over  the  absurdi- 
ties of  the  said  people.'  Whereupon  I  have  written  Jeannie  a  verj' 
scolding  letter,  which,  it  is  to  be  feared,  will  share  the  common  fate 
of  all  good  advice  in  this  world — make  her  angry  at  me,  without 
putting  a  stop  either  to  the  tea-drinkings  with  people,  'one  can  take 
no  pleasure  in,'  or  the  idle  practice  of  sitting  with  her  feet  on  the 
fender,  and  still  worse  practice  of  laughing  at  one's  neighbors'  ab- 
surdities rather  than  one's  own. 

We  have  dreadfully  cold  weather  here,  but  I  have  no  influenza 
as  yet — am  on  the  whole  well  enough  for  all  practical  purposes. 

With  kindest  regards  to  your  father  and  husband, 

Ever,  dear  Mrs.  Russell, 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  C. 


173  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


Fi'om  Mrs.  Carlyle's  Note  Book.^ 

April  13,  1845. — To-day,  oddly  enough,  while  I  was  engaged  in 
re-reading  Carlyle's  '  Philosophy  of  Clothes,'  Count  d'Orsay  walked 
in.  I  had  not  seen  him  for  four  or  five  years.  Last  time  he  was  as 
gay  in  his  colours  as  a  humming-bird — blue  satin  cravat,  blue 
velvet  waistcoat,  cream-coloured  coat,  lined  with  velvet  of  the  same 
hue,  trousers  also  of  a  bright  colour,  I  forget  what;  white  French 
gloves,  two  glorious  breastpins  attached  by  a  chain,  and  length 
enough  of  gold  watch-guard  to  have  hanged  himself  in.  To-day, 
in  compliment  to  his  five  more  years,  he  was  all  in  black  and 
brown — a  black  satin  cravat,  a  brown  velvet  waistcoat,  a  brown 
coat,  some  shades  darker  than  the  waistcoat,  lined  with  velvet  of 
its  own  shade,  and  almost  black  trousers,  one  breastpin,  a  large 
pear-shaped  pearl  set  into  a  little  cup  of  diamonds,  and  only  one 
fold  of  gold  chain  round  his  neck,  tucked  together  right  on  the 
centre  of  his  spacious  breast  with  one  magnificent  turquoise.  Well! 
that  man  understood  his  trade;  if  it  be  but  that  of  dandy,  nobody 
can  deny  that  he  is  a  perfect  master  of  it,  that  he  dresses  himself 
with  consummate  skill!  A  bungler  would  have  made  no  allow- 
ance for  five  more  years  at  his  time  of  life;  but  he  had  the  fine 
sense  to  perceive  how  much  better  his  dress  of  to-day  sets  off  his 
slightly  enlarged  figure  and  slightly  worn  complexion,  than  the 
humming-bird  colours  of  five  years  back  would  have  done.  Poor 
D'Orsay!  he  was  born  to  have  been  something  better  than  even  the 
king  of  dandies.  He  did  not  say  nearly  so  many  clever  things  this 
time  as  on  the  last  occasion.  His  wit,  I  suppose,  is  of  the  sort  that 
belongs  more  to  animal  spirits  than  to  real  genius,  and  his  animal 
spirits  seem  to  have  fallen  many  degrees.  The  only  thing  that  fell 
from  him  today  worth  remembering  was  his  account  of  a  mask  he 
had  seen  of  Charles  Fox,  '  all  punched  and  flattened  as  if  he  had 
slept  in  a  book.' 

Lord  Jeffrey  came,  unexpected,  while  the  Count  was  here. 
What  a  difference!  the  prince  of  critics  and  the  prince  of  dandies. 
How  washed  out  the  beautiful  dandiacal  face  looked  beside  that 
little  clever  old  man's!  The  large  blue  dandiacal  eyes,  you  would 
have  said,  had  never  contemplated  anything  more  interesting  than 
the  reflection  of  the  handsome  personage  they  pertained  to  in  a 
looking-glass;  while  the  dark  penetrating  ones  of  the  other  had 


»  Only  fragments  of  these  note-books  survive.    Most  of  them  were  de- 
stroyed by  Mrs.  Carlyle  herself. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  173 

been  taking  note  of  most  things  in  God's  universe,  even  seeing  a 
good  "way  into  millstones. 

Jeffrey  told  us  a  very  characteristic  trait  of  Lord  Brougham.  He 
(Brougham)  was  saying  that  some  individual  they  were  talking  of 
would  never  get  into  aristocratic  society :  first,  because  his  manners 
were  bad,  and  secondly,  said  Brougliam,  because  there  is  such  a 
want  of  truth  (!)  in  him.  In  aristocratic  society  there  is  such  a 
quick  tact  for  detecting  everything  unveracious  that  no  man  who 
is  not  true  can  ever  get  on  in  it!  'Indeed!'  said  Jeffrey,  '  I  am  de- 
lighted to  hear  you  give  such  a  character  of  the  upper  classes;  I 
thought  they  had  been  more  tolerant.'  'Oh,'  said  Brougham,  'I 
assure  you  it  is  the  fact :  any  man  who  is  deficient  in  veracity  im- 
mediately gets  tabooed  in  the  aristocratic  circles.' 

The  force  of  impudence  could  no  further  go. 

Ap)'U. — After  I  had  been  in  London  a  short  time  my  husband 
advised  me — ironically,  of  course — to  put  an  advertisement  in  the 
window  '  House  of  refuge  for  stray  dogs  and  cats.'  The  number  of 
dogs  and  cats  in  distressed  circumstances  who  imposed  themselves 
on  my  country  simplicity  was  in  fact  prodigious.  Now  it  strikes 
me  I  might  put  in  the  window  more  appropriately,  '  General  aduit 
office  for  all  the  miseries  of  the  universe.'  "Why  does  every  miser- 
able man  and  woman  of  my  acquaintance  come  to  me  with  his  and 
her  woes,  as  if  I  had  no  woes  of  my  own,  nothing  in  the  world  to 
do  but  to  console  others?  Ac7i  Gott !  my  head  is  getting  to  be  a  per- 
fect chaos  of  other  people's  disasters  and  despairs.  Here  has  been 
that  ill-fated  C.  J. — Next — but  to  begin  at  the  beginning — return- 
ing from  the  savings  bank  I  observed  in  the  King's  Road  a  child  of 
'  the  lower  orders,'  about  two  years  old,  in  the  act,  it  seemed,  of  dis- 
solving all  away  into  tears.  A  crowd  of  tatterdemalion  boys  had 
gathered  about  it;  but  the  genteel  of  both  sexes  were  passing  by  on 
the  other  side.  Of  course  I  stopped  and  inquired,  and  learnt  from  the 
boys  that  the  child  was  lost.  There  was  no  time  for  consideration  if  I 
meant  to  save  the  creature  from  going  all  into  water,  so  I  took  its 
little  hand,  and  bade  it  give  over  crying  and  I  would  help  it  to  find 
its  mother.  It  clung  to  me  quite  trustfully  and  dried  itself  up,  and 
toddled  along  by  my  side.  The  cortege  of  boys  dropped  off  by  de- 
grees, and  then  I  fell  to  questioning  my  foundling,  but  with  the 
blankest  result.  Of  its  name  it  knew  not  a  syllable,  nor  of  the 
street  where  it  lived.  Two  words,  '  Up  here,'  '  up  liere,'  seemed  to 
constitute  its  whole  vocabulary.  In  pursuance  of  this  direction,  I 
led  it  into  Manor  street;  but  in  the  midst  it  stood  still  with  a  mazed 
look,  and  proved  that  it  had  yet  another  monosyllable  by  scream- 


174  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

ing  '  No,  no.'  Here  we  were  joined  by  a  lad  of  fourteen  smoking 
a  short  pipe,  and  carrying  a  baby  a  degree  smaller  than  mine.  He 
evidently  suspected  I  was  stealing  the  child,  and  felt  it  his  duty 
not  to  lose  sight  of  me  and  it.  Nay,  he  took  its  other  hand  with- 
out asking,  'by  your  leave,'  and  I,  suspecting  his  intent,  though 
not  very  flattering  to  me,  did  not  protest.  By-and-by  he  hailed  a 
bigger  lad,  and  with  cockney  silence  deposited  his  own  baby  in 
the  arms  of  the  other,  put  his  short  pipe  into  his  pocket  (a  move 
which  I  was  really  thankful  for)  and  so  remained  free  to  devote 
himself  to  my  baby  with  heart  and  hand.  By  this  time  my  baby 
was  wearied,  and  so  was  I,  so  I  begged  the  boy,  since  he  would  ac- 
company me,  to  carry  it  to  my  house,  as  tliere  was  clearly  no 
chance  of  our  discovering  its  home.  In  the  boy's  arms  my  baby 
grew  a  little  more  expansive.  '  Have  you  a  fatlier? '  the  boy  asked 
it.  Answer,  an  inarticulate  sound.  '  Is  j'our  father  living? ' 
asked  the  boy  more  loudly.  The  child  smiled  sweetly,  and  said, 
so  that  we  could  understand :  '  I  have  a  pretty  brother,  and  they 
put  him  in  a  pretty  coffin.'  Ah,  me!  At  the  bottom  of  my  own 
street  I  met  two  policemen,  whom  I  asked  how  I  should  proceed 
to  get  the  child  restored  to  its  family.  '  Send  it  to  the  police  sta- 
tion.' That  I  would  not.  'Then  send  your  address  to  the  police 
station.'  That  I  would.  So  I  gave  the  boy  sixpence  and  sent  him 
when  he  had  set  down  the  child  at  my  own  door,  to  the  station 
house  with  a  slip  of  paper — 

'  Stray  child  at  Mrs.  Carlyle's, 

'  No.  5  Cheyne  Row.' 

The  boy  went  off  with  an  evident  change  in  his  feeling  towards 
me,  through  the  fact,  I  suppose,  of  my  having  spoken  to  the  po- 
liceman, and  partly  perhaps  on  account  of  my  respectable-looking 
house,  and  the  sixpence.  Helen  was  at  work  in  the  bedrooms,  so 
I  was  obliged  to  keep  my  child  in  the  room  with  me,  that  it  miglit 
not  fill  the  house  with  wail,  to  tlie  astonishment  and  wrath  of  my 
husband  at  his  writing,  as  it  would  have  been  sure  to  do  if  left  all 
alone  in  the  kitchen. 

And  now  ecco  la  combinazione.  On  the  table  was  a  note,  which 
had  been  left,  Helen  said,  by  a  young  lady,  who  looked  so  dis- 
tressed at  finding  me  out  that  she,  Helen,  had  invited  her  to  come 
in  and  wait  for  me,  but  she  preferred  waiting  at  some  shop  in  the 
neighbourhood.  I  opened  the  note  with  a  presentiment  that  some- 
body's '  finer  sensibilities  of  the  heart '  were  about  to  get  me  into 
new  trouble,  and  so  it  was.     This  lady,  whom  I  had  seen  but  once 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  175 

in  my  life,  felt  it  due  to  herself  to  make  some  disclosures  to  me ; 
in  addition  to  certain  awkward  disclosures  already  made  to  me  on 
her  subject,  '  and  to  throw  herself  on  my  mercy  for  advice  under  a 
new  misfortune.'  And  the  child!  I  could  not  refuse  to  see  anyone 
who  had  come  so  great  a  way,  and  with  such  prodigious  faith,  to 
'  throw  herself  on  my  mercy,'  but  how  to  keep  the  child  quiet  dur- 
ing her  '  disclosures?'  I  saw  only  one  chance,  to  give  it  as  much 
butter  and  bread  and  hard  biscuit  as  would  suffice  to  keep  it 
munching  for  an  hour  or  two:  and  this  was  forthwith  brought,  and 
with  that  consideration  for  les  details,  which  Cavaignac  used  to  call 
my  ruling  passion,  a  table-cloth  was  spread  on  my  new  carpet,  m 
the  midst  of  which  the  child  was  placed,  that  whatever  mess  it 
might  create  should  be  without  permanent  consequences.  My 
preparations  were  hardly  completed  when  the  lady  arrived — how 
changed  since  our  former  interview!  I  had  never  before  found 
myself  in  the  presence  of  a  woman  in  my  own  sphere  of  life  in 
such  a  situation.  I  have  a  strong  prejudice  against  women  'in 
such  a  situation  '  in  the  abstract.  It  indicates  such  stupidity.  But 
this  poor  woman  in  the  concrete,  covered  with  crimson  and  tears, 
went  to  my  heart  like  a  knife.  Stranger  as  she  was  to  me,  I  could 
'  do  no  otherwise '  bu  treceive  her  into  my  open  arms,  not  figura- 
tively but  literally;  and  then  this  reception,  '  so  different  from  what 
she  had  dared  to  hope,'  produced  a  sort  of  hysteric  on  her  part, 
and  she  laid  her  poor  face  on  my  lap,  and  covered  my  hands  with 
kisses.  Oh,  mercy!  What  a  false  position  for  one  woman  to  be  in 
towards  another!  It  was  a  desperate  interview.  The  only  comfort 
was  that  the  child  gave  us  no  trouble,  but  munched  away  uncon- 
scious of  the  tragic  scene,  never  stirring  from  its  enclianted  table- 
cloth. A  greater  contrast  could  not  be  than  betwixt  these  my 
two  protegees  for  the  time  being — that  two-year-old  duddy  child, 
drowning  its  recent  sorrows  in  bread-and-butter,  ignorant  that 
there  were  such  things  in  tlie  world;  and  that  elegantly  dressed 
young  lady  living  and  having  her  being  in  sentiment,  forgetful  ap- 
parently that  the  world  contained  anything  else.  At  last  she  went 
away,  consoled  a  little  by  my  kindness  perhaps;  but  as  for  my  ad- 
vice,' though  I  gave  her  the  best,  she  will  not  of  course  follow  a 
syllable  of  it. 

When  Carlyle  came  to  dinner,  he  looked  rather  aghast  at  my 
child.  'Only  think,'  said  I,  to  enlist  his  .sympathies  on  its  behalf, 
'what  a  state  of  distraction  the  poor  mother  must  be  in  all  this 
while!' 


176  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

'The  poor  mother,' repeated  he  scornfully;  'how  do  you  know 
that  the  poor  mother  did  not  put  it  down  there  in  the  King's  Road 
for  some  such  simpleton  as  you  to  pick  it  up,  and  saddle  yourself 
with  it  for  life? ' 

This  was  giving  me  a  new  idea.  I  began  to  look  at  the  child 
with  a  mixed  feeling  of  terror  and  interest:  to  look  at  it  critically 
as  a  possible  possession,  while  little  ideas  of  an  educational  sort 
flitted  through  my  brain.  This  state  of  uncertainty  was  cut  short, 
however,  by  a  young  woman  knocking  at  the  door,  and,  with 
many  protestations  of  gratitude,  applying  for  the  creature,  about 
five  hours  after  I  had  found  it.  The  young  woman  was  not  the 
mother,  but  a  grown-up  sister.  The  poor  mother  was  '  at  home  in 
fits.'  They  feared  the  child  had  staggered  down  into  the  Thames. 
It  evinced  no  'fine  feelings'  at  sight  of  its  sister;  in  fact,  it  looked 
with  extreme  indifference  on  her  and  indicated  an  inclination  to 
remain  where  it  was.  But  so  soon  as  she  took  it  into  her  arms,  it 
began  to  tell  her  '  its  travel's  history '  with  renewed  tears,  and  went 
off  into  a  new  explosion. 

April  27. — Last  night  we  had  a  novelty  in  the  way  of  society,  a 
sort  of  Irish  rigg.  Mr.  L came  in  before  tea  with  a  tail  con- 
sisting of  three  stranger  Irishmen— real  hot  and  hot  live  Irishmen, 
such  as  I  have  never  before  sat  at  meat  with  or  met '  in  flow  of  soul,' 
newly  imported,  with  the  brogue  'rather  exquisite,'  and  repale 
'more  exquisite  still.'  They  came  to  adore  Carlyle,  and  also  re- 
monstrate with  him,  almost  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  on  his  opin- 
ion, as  stated  in  his  'Chartism,'  that  'a  finer  people  than  the  Irish 
never  lived ;  only  they  have  two  faults :  they  do  lie  and  they  do 
steal.'  Tlie  poor  fellows  got  into  a  quite  epic  strain  over  this  most 
calumnious  exaggeration.  (Pity  but  my  husband  would  pay  some 
regard  to  the  sensibilities  of  'others,'  and  exaggerate  less!) 

The  youngest  one — Mr.  Pigot — a  handsome  youth  of  the  ro- 
mantic cast,  pale-faced,  with  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and  an  'Eman- 
cipation of  the  Species '  melancholy  spread  over  him — told  my 
husband,  after  having  looked  at  and  listened  to  him  in  compara- 
tive silence  for  the  first  hour,  with  '  How  to  observe '  written  in 
every  lineament,  that  now  he  (Mr.  Pigot)  felt  assured  he  (my  hus- 
band) was  not  in  his  heart  so  unjust  towards  Ireland  as  his  writings 
led  one  to  suppose,  and  so  he  would  confess,  for  the  purpose  of  re- 
tracting it,  the  strong  feeling  of  repulsion  with  which  he  had  come 
to  him  that  night.  '  Why,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  then,  did  you 
come?'  I  could  not  help  asking,  thereby  producing  a  rather  awk- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  177 

ward  result.  Several  awkward  results  were  produced  in  this  '  nicht 
wi'  Paddy.'  They  were  speaking  of  the  Scotch  intolerance  towards 
Catholics,  and  Curlyle  as  usual  took  up  the  cudgels  for  intolerance. 
'Why,'  said  he,  '  how  could  they  do  otherwise?  If  one  sees  one's 
fellow-creature  following  a  damnable  error,  by  continuing  in  which 
the  devil  is  sure  to  get  him  at  last,  and  roast  him  in  eternal  fire  and 
brimstone,  are  you  to  let  him  go  towards  such  consummation?  or 
are  you  not  rather  to  use  all  means  to  save  him  ? ' 

'  A  nice  prospect  for  you  to  be  roasted  in  fire  and  brimstone,' I 

said  to  Mr.  L ,  the  red-hottest  of  Catholics.     'For  all  of  us,' 

said  poor  L ,  laughing  good-naturedly;  'we  are  all  Catho- 
lics.' Nevertheless  the  evening  was  got  over  without  bloodshed ;  at 
least,  malice  prepense  bloodshed,  for  a  little  blood  icas  shed  involun- 
tarily. While  they  were  all  three  at  the  loudest  in  their  defence  of 
Ireland  against  the  foul  aspersions  Carlyle  had  cast  on  it,  and 
'  scornfully '  cast  on  it,  one  of  their  noses  burst  out  bleeding.  It 
was  the  nose  of  the  gentleman  whose  name  we  never  heard.  He 
let  it  bleed  into  his  pocket  handkerchief  privately  till  nature  was  re- 
lieved, and  was  more  cautious  of  exciting  himself  afterwards.     The 

third,  Mr.  D ,  quite  took  my  husband's  fancy,  and  mine  also 

to  a  certain  extent.  He  is  a  writer  of  national  songs,  and  came 
here  to  '  eat  his  terms.'  With  the  coarsest  of  human  faces,  decid- 
edly as  like  a  horse's  as  a  man's,  he  is  one  of  the  people  that  I 
should  get  to  think  beautiful,  there  is  so  much  of  the  power  both  of 
intellect  and  passion  in  his  physiognomy.  As  for  young  Mr.  Pigot, 
I  will  here,  in  the  spirit  of  prophecy,  inherited  from  my  gieat  great 
ancestor,  John  Welsh,  the  Covenanter,  make  a  small  prediction.  If 
there  be  in  his  time  an  insurrection  in  Ireland,  as  these  gentlemen 
confidently  anticipate,  Mr.  Pigot  will  rise  to  be  a  Robespierre  of 
some  sort;  will  cause  many  heads  to  be  removed  from  the  shoulders 
they  belong  to;  and  will  '  eventually'  have  his  own  head  removed 
from  his  own  shoulders,  Nature  has  written  on  that  handsome 
but  fatal-looking  countenance  of  his,  quite  legibly  to  my  prophetic 
eye,  '  Go  and  get  thyself  beheaded,  but  not  before  having  lent  a 
hand  towards  the  great  work  of  "  immortal  smash."  ' 

All  these  Irishmen  went  off  without  their  hats,  and  had  to  return 
into  the  room  to  seek  them.  Two  of  them  found  theirs  after  a 
moderate  search.  The  third,  the  one  whose  nose  bled,  had  hid  his 
under  the  sofa,  where  I  discovered  it  by  help  of  my  aforementioned 
second  sight.  I  have  now  seen  what  Sir  James  Graham  would  call 
'  fine  foamy  patriotism, '  dans  sa  plus  simple  expression. 

8* 


m  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


LETTER  70. 

In  the  summer  of  1845  Mrs.  Carlyle  went  alone  to  Lancashire  to 
stay  with  her  nacle  at  Liverpool,  i^nd  with  Mrs.  Paulet  at  Seaforth, 
From  thence  were  written  the  ensuing  letters. — J.  A.  F. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

First  day  in  Flatz,> 
Liverpool,  July  23,  1845. 

Dearest, — It  is  all  as  well  as  could  be  expected.  I  arrived  with- 
out accident,  not  even  much  tired,  an  hour  and  half  before  I  was 
looked  for — in  fact  between  five  and  six.  Consequently  there  was 
nobody  to  meet  me,  and  I  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  myself  a 
car,  and  at  the  same  time  keeping-  watch  over  my  trunk  and  dress- 
ing-bo.x;  the  former  indeed  was  gettingitself  coolly  borne  away  by  a 
porter  amongst  some  other  people's  luggage,  when  I  laid  my  hand 
on  it,  and  indicated :  Thus  far  shalt  thou  go  but  no  farther.  My 
uncle  I  met  tumbling  downstairs,  with  what  speed  he  might,  pre- 
pared for  being  kissed  to  death;  then  came  Maggie;  and  lastly 
Babbie,  flushed  and  embarrassed,  and  unsatisfactory-looking;  for, 
alas!  she  had  been  all  day  preserving  strawberries,  and  had  not  ex- 
pected me  so  soon,  and  was  not  dressed:  to  be  an  unwise  virgin, 
taken  with  one's  lamp  uutrimmed,  means  here  to  be  caught  in  de- 

shahille.     A 1  have  not  seen  yet — tant  mietix,  for  I  don't  like 

him  'the  least  in  the  world.'  Johnnie  has  sunk  away  into  'an  un- 
intelligible whinner."'' 

On  the  whole,  there  is  little  '  food  for  the  young  soul,  Mr.  Carlyle! ' 
But  she  (as  Mazzini  insists  on  calling  the  soul,  and  I  think  with 
reason;  making  the  soul  into  an  it  being — what  shall  I  say  ? — a 
desecration,  upon  my  honour) — '  she  '  can  do  without  visible  food, 
like  my  leech,  for  all  the  while  'she'  is  to  abide  in  the  place.  And 
'  one  has  always  one's  natural  affections  left.'  And  then  to  '  give 
pleasure  to  others! '  The  compensation  that  lies  in  that  under  all 
circumstances!    Ah  ! 

I  am  established  in  Mary's  little  room  (off  my  uncle's)  which  they 
have  made  as  tidy  as  possible  for  me.  There  is  a  tradition  of  '  a 
little  wee  wifie  that  lived  in  a  shoe; '  but  I  am  still  more  curiously 
lodged,  for  this  room  is  for  all  the  world  like  a  boot,  the  bed  occu- 
pying the  heel  of  it,  a  little  bed  like  a  coffin. 

1  Attila  Schmelze's  Journey  to  Fldtz,  by  Jean  Paul. 
*  Some  fool's  speech  to  me,  I  forget  whose. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  17d 

In  so  new  a  predicament,  of  course,  I  could  not  sleep ;  the  best  I 
made  of  it  was  a  doze  from  time  to  time  of  a  few  minutes'  duration, 
from  which  I  started  up  with  a  sensation  of  horror,  like  what  must 
have  been  felt  by  the  victim  of  the  Iron  Shroud.  For  the  rest, 
there  was  a  cat  opera,  in  which  the  prwia  donna  had  an  organ  that 
'bet  the  worl;''  then  there  are  some  half-dozen  of  stout-lunged 
cocks,  and  a  dog  that  lyrically  recognises  every  passing  event.  Per- 
haps, like  the  pigs,  I  shall  get  used  to  it;  if  not  I  must  just  go  all 
the  sooner  to  Seaforth,  where  there  is  at  least  a  certain  quiet. 

My  coachful  of  men  turned  out  admirably,  as  silent  as  could  be 
wished,  yet  not  deficient  ia  the  courtesies  of  life.  The  old  gentle- 
man with  moustachios  and  a  red  face  was  Colonel  Cleveland,  of  the 
artillery,  'much  distinguished  in  the  wars.'  There  was  another 
old  gentleman  still  more  miraculous  than  Rio;'^  for  he  had  one 
eye  boiled,  the  other  parboiled,  no  leg  aud  his  mind  boiled  to 
jelly,  and  yet  he  got  to  Liverpool  just  as  well  as  the  rest  of 
us.  The  little  man  opposite  me,  who  was  absorbed  in  Eug^ue 
Sue's  female  Bluebeard,  was  a  German,  and,  pleased  to  see  me 
reading  his  language,  he  gave  me  his  pea-jacket  to  wrap  my  legs 
in,  for  we  were  all  perished  with  cold.  The  English  dandy  with 
the  heaven-blue  waistcoat  slept  the  whole  way,  exactly  in  the  atti- 
tude of  '  James '  waiting  for  the  Sylphide  to  come  and  kiss  him ;  but 
he  might  sleep  long  enough,  I  fancy,  before  any  '  bit  of  fascination ' 
would  take  the  trouble. 

And  now  you  must  'excuse  us  the  day.'  After  such  a  night,  I 
can  neither  'make  wits,'' nor,  what  were  more  to  the  purpose, 
senses,  for  your  gratification.  I  shall  go  and  walk,  and  look  at  the 
Oreat  Britain  packet;  if  one  does  not  enlighten  one's  mind  in  the 
shipping  department  liere,  I  see  not  how  else  one  shall  enlighten  it. 

Babbie  has  just  knocked  to  beg  I  would  give  her  love  to  you,  and 
most  sincere  thanks  for  the  Book,^  the  preface  of  which  I  read 
aloud  to  my  uncle  at  breakfast;  and  he  pronounced  it  'very  satiri- 
cal ' — a  true  speak. 

God  bless  you,  dear.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  feel  lonely,  nor  will 
you;  and  yet  I  should  not  precisely  like  if  you  missed  me  none  at 
all.  Your  distracted  Janekin. 


'  Annandale  for  '  beat  the  world.' 

'  Rio,  a  wandering,  rather  loud  and  headlong,  but  innocent-hearted,  French 
friend,  Neo-Catholic,  &c.  I  believe  is  still  living  at  Paris;  a  stranger  here  for 
twenty-five  years  now. 

'  BrJlte's  phrase  for  the  sad  operation  of  being  with  effort '  witty.' 

*  '  Book,'  I  suppose  will  be  Life  of  Schiller,  2nd  edition. 


180  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  71. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsta. 

Lirerpool:  Friday,  July  25, 1845. 

Dearest, — You  have  interpreted  the  library  note  too  ironically;  it 
is  a  polite  bond-fide  offer  of  the  book  to  read.  I  applied  for  it  some 
six  months  ago  without  result;  the  copy  I  had  was  lent  to  me  by 
Darwin. 

TotU  va  Men  ici;  le  sommeil  manque.  The  cat-operas  are  a  fixed 
thing;  they  too,  it  would  seem,  have  their  Thursday  night.  Last 
night  it  was  Der  FreyscMtz,  or  something  as  devilish,  and  the  per- 
formance did  not  cease  till  two  in  the  morning;  when  the  cocks 
took  possession  of  the  stage,  'bits  of  fascination,' ^  and  carried  on 
the  glory  till  breakfast- time.  Add  to  which  occasional  explosions 
of  bad  feeling  from  the  dog,  and  an  incessant  braying  of  carts  from 
early  dawn,  going  to  and  from  the  quarry;  and  through  all,  the 
sensation  of  being  pent  tip  in  the  foot  of  a  boot.  You  may  fancy 
the  difficulty  experienced  by  a  finely  organised  human  being,  like 
me,  in  getting  even  a  Scotcli  '  poor's  '■  ^  minimum  of  sleep  under 
such  circumstances!  Nevertheless,' and  although  the  wind  here  is 
constantly  in  the  east,  and  although  the  eternal  smell  of  roast  meat 
in  this  house  is  oppressive  to  soul  and  sense,  '  it  is  but  fair  to  state '  ^ 
that  I  feel  less  tendency  to  'dee  and  do  nought  ava'  *  than  when  I 
left  London.  Elizabeth  Pepoli  would  impute  the  improvement  to 
'the  greater  variety  of  food' — oh.  Heavens! — and  above  all  to  the 
excellent  porter.  I  who,  though  my  Sylphide's  wings  have  long 
fallen  off,  can  still  manage  by  stilts  and  other  means  to  keep  myself 
above  such  depths  of  prose  as  that  comes  to,  find  '  the  solution ' 
elsewhere :  namely  in  '  the  great  comfort '  which  it  is  somehow  to 

>  Two  London  mechanics  paused  at  a  print-shop  window  where  I  was. 
'  Ha! '  said  one  to  the  other  in  a  j.iunty  knowing  tone,  '  Tag-li-oni !  Bit  of 
fascination  there.'  Poor  TagUoni  was,  indeed,  elastic  as  india-rubber,  but  as 
meaningless  too,  poor  soul.— T.  C. 

■■'  Mazzini's,  meaning  paupers. 

5  Jeffrey,  in  Edinburgh  Revietv,  continually. 

«  Sandy  Blackadder,  factor  at  Hoddam  (long  ago),  a  heavy,  baggy,  big 
long-winded  man,  was  overheard  one  day,  in  a  funeral  company  which  had 
not  yet  risen,  discoursing  largely  in  monotonous  undertones  to  some  neigh- 
bour about  the  doings,  intentions,  and  manifold  insignificant  proceedings  of 
some  anonymous  fellow-man ;  but  at  length  wound  up  with  '  and  then  he  deed 
and  did  nought  ava.' 


JAKE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  181 

be  made  sensible  from  time  to  time  that  if  oneself  is  miserable, 
others  are  'perhaps  more  to  be  pitied  that  they  are  not  miserable.' 
Here  sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  marketing,  and  eating,  and  dress- 
ing thereof!  And  a  new  satin  dress  can  diffuse  perfect  beautitude 
tlirough  an  immortal  soul !  The  circulating  library  satisfies  all  their 
intellectual  wants,  and  flirtation  all  the  wants  of  their  hearts;  it  is 
very  convenient  to  be  thus  easily  satisfied.  One  looks  plump, 
digests  without  effort,  and  sleeps  in  spite  of  all  the  cats  and  cocks 
in  the  world.  But  somehow  '  I  as  one  solitary  individual ' '  would 
rather  remain  in  Hell — the  Hell  I  make  for  myself  with  my  restless 
digging — than  accept  this  drowsy  placidity.  Yes,  I  begin  to  feel 
again  that  I  am  not  la  derniere  desfemmes,  which  has  been  oftener 
than  anything  else  my  reading  of  myself  in  these  the  latter  times; 
a  natural  enough  reaction  against  the  exorbitant  self-conceit  which 
put  me  at  fourteen  on  setting  up  for  a  woman  of  genius.  Now  I 
should  be  only  too  pleased  to  feel  myself  a  'woman  without  the 
genius;'  a  woman,  not  a  '  chimera,'  '  a  miserable  fatuity.'  But  this 
is  fully  worse  than  a  description  of  scenery — description  of  one's 
own  inside!  Bah!  who  likes  one  well  enough  to  find  that  other 
than  a  bore? 

"Well,  I  did  the  Great  Britain.  It  is  three  hundred  and  twenty 
feet  long  and  fifty  feet  broad,  and  all  of  iron,  and  has  six  sails,  and 
one  pays  a  shilling  to  see  it,  and  it  was  not '  a  good  joy.'  All  these 
prodigious  efforts  for  facilitating  locomotion  seem  to  me  a  highly 
questionable  investment  of  human  faculty;  people  need  rather  to  be 
taught  to  sit  still.  Yesterday  I  went  with  the  girls  and  Mr.  Liddle 
(the  man  who  is  so  like  a  doll)  to  a  flower-show  in  the  Botanical 
Gardens.  The  flowers  were  well  enough,  but  few  of  them — the 
company  shockingly  bad;  really  these  Liverpool  ladies  look,  two- 
thirds  of  them,  improper;  the  democratic  tendency  of  the  age  in 
dress  has  not  penetrated  hither,  I  assure  you;  not  a  woman  that 
Helen  might  not  stand  in  admiration  before,  and  exclaim  'How 
expensive!'' 

To-day  we  are  going  'across  the  water'  with  my  uncle;  I  make 
a  point  of  accepting  every  lark  proposed  to  me,  however  uninviting. 
I  am  here  for  what  Helen  calls  '  a  fine  change,'  and  the  more  move- 
ment the  better.  If  I  do  not  get  good  of  the  movement,  I  shall  at 
least  get  good  of  the  sitting  still  after  it.  My  uncle  is  very  kind 
to  me.     Alick  is  rather  improved,  speaks  not  at  all  on  politics  in 


>  My  father's  phrase.  «  Helen's  phrase  In  the  National  Gallery. 


182  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

my  hearing.     Johnnie  I  have  found  a  use  for.     I  play  one  game  at 
chess  with  liim  every  night.     'He  beats  us  a'  for  a  deep  thought.'' 
Kind  regards  to  Helen,  and  compliments  to  the  leech. 
Do  not  work  too  hard. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  C. 

'Nolibena.''   I've  got  no  bacca.' 


Extracts  of  Further  Letters  from  Liverpool. 
To  T.  CarlyU,  Chelsea. 

July  27,  1845. — They  are  all  gone  to  church  and  I  am  here  alone, 
enjoying  virtue's  (Roman  virtue's)  own  reward.  My  uncle  at  the 
last  minute  came  to  me  in  the  room  where  I  had  fortified  myself 
(morally),  and  asked  with  a  certain  enthusiasm,  '  Are  you  not  going 
to  church?'  'No,  I  have  no  thought  of  it.'  'And  why  not?' 
(crescendo).  '  Because  your  minister  is  a  ranting  jackass,  that  cracks 
the  drum  of  one's  ears.'  'Who  told  you  that? '  (stamping  like  my 
grandfather.)  'I  do  not  choose  to  compromise  anyone  by  naming 
my  authority.'  'And  what  has  that  to  do  with  going  to  a  place  of 
worship?'  '  Nothing  whatever;  but  it  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
staying  away  from  a  place  that  is  not  of  worship.'  He  looked  at 
me  over  his  spectacles  for  an  instant  as  if  doubtful  whether  to  eat 
me  raw  or  laugh;  and  'eventually,  thanks  God,'  ^  he  chose  the  lat- 
ter part.  The  girls,  who  came  in  fear  and  trembling  to  pick  up  my 
fragments,  were  astonished  to  find  that  I  had  carried  the  day.  We 
get  on  famously,  my  uncle  and  I,  and  by  dint  of  defiance,  tempered 
with  kisses,  I  can  manage  him  better  than  anyone  else  does. 

July  30. — My  uncle  has  enjoyed  my  visit  very  much.  I  wrote  to 
him  beforehand  on  the  subject  of  his  'detestable  politics,'  and  we 
have  had  no  flares  up  this  time.     The  only  one  I  have  witnessed 

was  last  night  at  cards.     He  and  A were  playing  at  icarte  on  a 

little  table  in  a  corner,  very  silently  and  amicably  to  all  appearance ; 
the  rest  of  us  were  sewing  or  readmg.  Suddenly  the  little  table 
flew  into  the  air  on  the  point  of  my  uncle's  foot,  and  a  shower  of 

'  Admiring  remark  of  an  Annandale  mother  about  her  particularly  stupid 
huge  lout  of  a  son. 

"  Dragoon's  letter  to  his  beloved  in  some  police  report  which  we  had  read 
years  ago.    '  Happy  with  you  to  the  end  of  eternity,'  and  then  this  noti  bena. 

*  Maizini. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  183 

cards  fell  all  over  the  floor!     '  D these  eternal  cards! '  said  he 

fiercely,  as  we  all  stared  up  at  him  in  astonishment.  '  Hang  them! 
Curse  them  to  hell! '  They  all  looked  frightened;  for  me,  the  sud- 
denness of  the  thing  threw  me  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  in  which  my 
uncle  himself  was  the  first  to  join.  This  morning  at  breakfast 
something  was  said  about  cards  to  be  taken  to  Scotland.  'But,' 
said  I,  '  I  thought  they  had  been  all  sent  last  night  to  hell.'  '  Pooh ! ' 
said  my  uncle  quite  gravely,  '  that  was  only  one  pack.' 

I  am  not  wise  in  writing  on  with  'my  brains '  (as  Rio  would  say) 
tormenting  me  in  this  way.  But  what  to  do?  One's  Good,  if  not 
feeling  so  lonely  as  might  be  wished,  is  in  fact  lonely  enough,  and 
one's  self  without  one's  own  red  bed  to  retire  into.  Cannot  I  stay 
in  my  '  boot '  and  be  quiet?  No,  I  get  beside  myself  pent  up  there; 
latterly  I  have  been  bolting  out  of  it  through  the  men's  room, 
whether  they  were  clothed  or  no,  like  a  bottle  of  ginger  beer  burst- 
ing the  cork!  'Uncle,  I  beg  your  pardon  but  I  must  get  out!' 
'  Weel,  weel,'  hiding  himself  behind  the  curtain,  '  there  is  no  help 
for  it.* 

God  bless  you,  dear.  I  am  in  the  Devil's  own  humour  to-day  if 
you  care  to  know  it — but  ever  yours,  not  without  affection. 

Juhj  31. — Yesterday  in  the  evening  came  Dr.  James  C ,  and 

a  young  N ,  all  in  black,  this  last  being  just  returned  from  the 

funeral,  of  his  only  sister,  a  promising  girl  of  sixteen,  the  poor 
mother's  cliief    comfort  of  late  years.     I    recollected    the    time 

when  Mrs.  N ,  then  Agnes  L ,  consulted  me  whether  she 

ought  to  marry  J.  N .     Where  were  all  these  young  N 's 

then — the  lad  who  sate  there  looking  so  sadly,  the  girl  who  had 

just  been  laid  under  the  earth?    Had  Agnes  L lived  true  to 

the  memory  of  her  first  love,  would  these  existences  have  been  for 
ever  suppressed  by  her  act?  If  her  act  could  have  suppressed 
them,  what  pretension  have  they  to  call  themselves  immortal, 
eternal  ?  What  comfort  is  there  in  thinking  of  the  young  girl  just 
laid  in  her  grave?  '  My  dear,  you  really  ought  not  to  go  on  with 
that  Bort  of  thing — all  that  questioning  leads  to  nothing.  Wc  know 
nothing  about  it  and  cannot  know,  and  what  better  should  we  be  if 
we  did?'  '  All  very  true,  Mr.  Carlyle,  but ' — at  least  one  cannot  ac- 
cept such  solution  on  the  authority  of  others,  even  of  the  wisest — 
one  must  have  worked  it  out  for  oneself.  And  the  working  of  it 
out  is  a  sore  business,  very  sore;  especially  with  'a  body  apt  to  fall 
into  holes.' 

August  5,  Seaforth. — Geraldine  (Jewsbury)  came  yesterday  after- 


184  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

noon,  looking  even  better  than  when  in  London,  and  not  triite,  as 

R expected,  by  any  means.     She  has  brought  a  good  stock 

of  cigaritos  with  her,  whicli  is  rather  a  pity,  as  I  had  just  begun  to 
forget  there  was  such  a  weed  as  tobacco  in  the  civilised  world. 
She  is  very  amusing  and  good-humoured,  does  all  the  '  wits '  of  the 
party:  and  Mrs.  Paulet  and  I  look  to  the  Pure  Reason  and  Practi- 
cal Endeavour.  I  fancy  you  would  find  our  talk  amusing  if  you 
could  assist  at  it  in  a  cloak  of  darkness,  for  one  of  the  penalties  of 
being  '  the  wisest  man  and  profoundest  thinker  of  the  age'  is  the 
royal  one  of  never  hearing  the  plain,  '  uuornamented '  truth  spok- 
en ;  everyone  striving  to  be  wise  and  profound  invita  naturd  in  the 
presence  of  such  a  one,  and  making  himself  as  much  as  possible  into 
his  likeness.  And  this  is  the  reason  that  Arthur  Helps  and  so  many 
others  talk  very  nicely  to  me,  and  bore  you  to  distraction.  With 
me  they  are  not  afraid  to  stand  on  the  little  '  broad  basis'  of  their 
own  individuality,  such  as  it  is.  With  you  they  are  always  balanc- 
ing themselves  like  Taglioni,  on  the  point  of  their  moral  or  intel- 
lectual great  toe. 

If  I  were  going  '  at  my  age  and  with  my  cough '  to  take  up  a 
mission,  it  would  be  the  reverse  of  F.  W 's.  Instead  of  boil- 
ing up  individuals  into  the  species  I  would  draw  a  chalk  circle 
round  every  individuality,  and  preach  to  it  to  keep  within  that, 
and  preserve  and  cultivate  its  identity  at  the  expense  of  ever  so 
much  lost  gilt  of  other  people's  '  isms.' 

August  10. — '  Monsieur  le  President !  I  begin  to  be  weary  of  the 
treatment  I  experience  here.''  Always  my  'bits  of  letters'  and 
'  bits  of  letters,'  as  if  I  were  some  nice  little  child  writing  in  half 
text  on  ruled  paper  to  its  God-papa!  Since  Jeffrey  was  pleased  to 
compliment  me  on  my  'bits  of  convictions,'  I  have  not  had  my 
'  rights  of  woman '  so  trifled  with.  He  paid  the  penalty  of  his  as- 
surance in  losing  from  that  time  my  valuable  correspondence;  with 
you  I  cannot  so  easily  cease  to  correspond  '  for  reasoni  which  it 
may  be  interesting  not  to  state.'  But  a  woman  of  my  invention  can 
always  find  legitimate  means  of  revenging  herself  on  those  who  do 
not  treat  her  with  the  respect  due  to  genius,  who  put  her  off  with  a 
pat  on  the  head  or  a  chuck  under  the  chin  when  she  addresses  them 
in  all  the  full-grown  gravity  of  five  feet  five  inches  and  three-quar- 
ters without  her  shoes  I  So  let  us  hear  no  more  of  my  '  bits  of  let- 
ters' unless  you  are  prepared  to  front  a  nameless  retribution. 

J.  M seems  to  be  still  fighting  it  out  with  his  conscience, 


'  French  iJewZw Won— speaker  in  Jacobin  Club,  evening  of  August  10. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  185 

abating  no  jot  of  heart  or  hope.  If  he  were  beside  you  I  am  per- 
suaded he  would  soon  become  llie  siucerest  disciple  that  you  ever 
had;  he  seems  so  very  near  Icickiug  his  foot  through  the  whole 
Unitarian  concern  already.  He  was  arguing  with  Geraldine  about 
the  'softening  tendencies  of  our  age,'  'the  sympathy  for  knaves 
and  criminals,'  'the  impossibility  of  great  minds  being  disjoined 
from  great  morality,'  'the  stupidity  of  expecting  to  be  happy 
through  doing  good.' 

Nothing  could  be  more  orthodox!  But  what  would  have  'en- 
grushed '  him  with  you  more  than  anything  was  in  talking  of 
Cromwell's  doings  in  Ireland.  'After  all,'  he  said,  '  people  make 
a  great  deal  more  outcry  over  massacres  than  there  is  any  occasion 
for;  one  does  not  understand  that  exorbitant  respect  for  human 
life,  in  overlooking  or  violating  everything  that  makes  it  of  any 
value. 

August  14. — A  delicate  attention!  This  morning  the  bell  for  get- 
ting up  did  not  ring  I  lay  awake  till  near  nine  expecting  it,  and 
then  I  thought  I  might  as  well  dress.  When  I  came  down  every- 
body had  finished  breakfast.  '  But  the  bell  did  not  ring,'  said  I, 
quite  shocked.  '  Oh,  no,  madam,'  said  Mr.  Paulet;  '  they  told  me 
you  were  so  witty  at  dinner  yesterday  that  you  liad  better  be  let 
slumber  this  morning  as  long  as  possible,  in  case  of  j^our  feeling  a 
little  exhausted! '  And  so  actually  the  bell  had  not  been  rung  in 
consideration  of  my  incessant  wit. 

I  had  a  long  and  really  excellent  letter  from  Helen  yesterday, 
containing  a  little  box  of  salve  for  my  bunions.  She  had  '  tried  it 
on  herself  first '  and  found  it  quite  satisfactory.  Tell  her  that  her 
letter  was  quite  a  treat  for  me,  so  copious  and  sensible,  and  not 
without  wits  even !  She  tells  me  that  '  the  child '  (the  leech)  '  gets 
always  more  lively,'  and  she  is  becoming  'rather  fond  of  it.' 
She  suggests  also,  ver}'  sensibly,  that  I  should  bid  you  give  her 
timely  notice  when  you  leave,  '  as  she  would  like  to  have  all  your 
things  nice  for  you,  and  you  might  never  think  of  telling  her  till 
the  very  day ! ' 

I  have  your  letter.  Sometimes  the  postman  prefers  taking  them 
to  Dale  Street,  and  I  have  to  wait  all  day  in  uncertainty,  and  then 
lam  'vaixcd.'  No  address  seems  able  to  secure  us  against  this 
contretemps.  I  wish  I  were  there,  dear  Good,  to  baiser  you  d  la 
front.'  I  could  not  reconcile  myself  to  following  my  pleasures,  or 
at  least  my  eases,  here  while  you  are  so  hard  worked  and  solitary, 
if  it  were  not  that  my  health  is  really  improving,  and  I  look  for- 


186  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

ward  to  being  less  of  aa  Egyptian  skeleton  lady  for  you  through 
the  winter  by  this  egoism  I  am  indulging  in  at  present. 

Mrs.  Buller  got  no  letter  from  me;  what  with  eating,  and  sleep- 
ing, and  walking,  and  driving,  and  having  ray  feet  rubbed,  and 
settling  the  general  question,  I  have  really  no  time  for  writing 
except  to  one's  Good. 

Every  night,  too,  after  Mr.  Paulet  comes  home,  I  play  one  or 
more  games  at  chess;  which  is  using  him  up  famously.  He  is 
wonderfully  patient  of  us  all,  and  '  not  without  glimmerings  of 
intelligence '!  My  paper  and  everybody's  is  done;  so  you  must  put 
up  with  scraps. 

Your  own 

Adorable  Wife. 

LETTER  72. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Liverpool:  Saturday,  Aug.  16,  1845. 

Dearest, — I  never  know  whether  a  letter  is  welcomer  when  it 
arrives  after  having  been  impatiently  waited  for,  or  like  yesterday's, 
'quite  promiscuously,' when  I  was  standing 'on  the  broad  basis' 
of,  '  Blessed  are  they  who  do  not  hope,  for  they  shall  not  be  dis- 
appointed!' I  assure  you  I  am  the  only  person  obliged  by  your 
writing;  it  makes  a  very  palpable  difference  in  my  amiability 
throughout  the  day  whether  I  have  a  letter  to  begin  it  with. 

Last  night  we  went,  according  to  programme,  to  Mrs.  A 's, 

and  '  it  is  but  fair  to  state '  that  the  drive  there  and  back  in  the 
moonlight  was  the  best  of  it.  The  party  did  me  no  ill,  however; 
it  was  not  a  Unitarian  crush  like  the  last,  but  adapted  to  the  size  of 
the  room:  select,  moreover,  and  with  the  crowning  grace  of  an 
open  window.  There  was  an  old  gentleman  who  did  the  impossi- 
ble to  inspire  me  with  a  certain  respect;  Y they  called  him, 

and  his  glory  consists  in  owning  the  Prince's  Park,  and  throwing 
it  open  to  '  poors.' '  Oh,  what  a  dreadful  little  old  man!  He  plied 
me  with  questions,  and  suggestions  about  you,  till  I  was  within  a 
trifle  of  putting  '  my  finger  in  the  pipj'  o'  'im.''  'How  did  Mr. 
Carlyle  treat  Oliver  Cromwell'.?  crimes? '  '  His  what? '  said  I.  '  The 
atrocities  he  exercised  on  the  Irish.'     '  Oh,  you  mean  massacring  a 

« Note,  p.  180. 

"  Crying  baby  unappeasable.    'Put  your  finger  in  ta  pipie  o't '  (little  wind' 
pipe),  said  some  Highland  body. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  187 

garrison  or  two?  All  that  is  treated  very  briefly.'  'But  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  must  feel  a  just  horror  of  that.'  'Horror?  Oh,  none  at  all,  I 
assure  you!  He  regards  it  as  the  only  means  under  the  circum- 
stances to  save  bloodshed.'  The  little  old  gentleman  bounced  back 
in  his  chair,  and  spread  out  his  two  hands,  like  a  duck  about  to 
swim,  while  there  burst  from  his  lips  a  groan  that  made  everyone 

look  at  us.     What  had  I  said  to  their  Mr.  Y ?    By-and-by 

my  old  gentleman  returned  to  the  charge.  '  Mr.  Carlyle  must  be 
feeling  much  delighted  about  the  Academical  Schools? '  '  Oh,  no! 
he  has  been  so  absorbed  in  his  own  work  lately  that  he  has  not 
been  at  leisure  to  be  delighted  about  anything.'  'But,  madam!  a 
man  may  attend  to  his  own  work,  and  attend  at  the  same  time  to 
questions  of  great  public  interest.'  'Do  you  think  so?  I  don't.' 
Another  bounce  on  the  chair.  Then,  with  a  sort  of  awe,  as  of  a 
'  demon  more  wicked  than  your  wife: '  >  '  Do  you  not  think,  madam, 
that  more  good  might  be  done  by  taking  up  the  history  of  the 
actual  time  than  of  past  ages?  Such  a  time  as  this,  so  full  of  im- 
provements in  arts  and  sciences,  the  whole  face  of  Europe  getting 
itself  changed!     Suppose  Mr.  Carlyle  should  bring  out  a  yearly 

volume  about  all  this? '    This  was  Y 's  last  flight  of  eloquence 

with  me,   for  catching  the  eyes  of  a  lady  (your  Miss  L of 

'  The  Gladiator ')  fixed  on  me  with  the  most  ludicrous  expression 
of  sympathy,  I  fairly  burst  out  laughing  till  the  tears  ran  down; 
and  when  I  had  recovered  myself,  the  old  gentleman  had  turned 

for  compensation  to  J.  M .     J.  had  reasons  for  being  civil  to 

him  which    I  had  not,    Mr.  Y being    his  landlord;    but  he 

seemed  to  be  answering  him  in  his  sleep,  while  his  waking  thoughts 
were  intent  on  an  empty  chair  betwixt  Geraldine  and  me,  and 
eventually  he  made  it  his  own.  As  if  to  deprecate  my  confound- 
ing him  with  these  Y 's,  he  immediately  began  to  speak  in 

the  most  disrespectful  manner  of  Mechanics  Institutes  '  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing;'  and  then  we  got  on  these  eternal  Vestiges 
of  Creation,'^  which  he  termed,  rather  happily,  'animated  mud.' 
Geraldine  and  Mrs.  Paulet  were  wanting  to  engage  him  in  a  doc- 
trinal discussion,  which  they  are  extremely  fond  of:  'Look  at 
Jane,' suddenly  exclaimed  Geraldine, '  she  is  quizzing  us  in  her  own 

mind.     You  must  know '  (to  M )  '  we  cannot  get  Jane  to  care 

a  bit  about  doctrines.'     'I  should  think  not,'  said  M ,  with 

•  Peter  Nimmo's  sermon  on  Ananias  and  Sapphira:  '  Tempted  by  some 
demon  more  wicked  than  his  wife.' 
>  Dull  book  (q.u&si-atbeistic),  much  talked  of  then. 


188  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

great  vivacity;  'Mrs.  Carlyle  is  the  most  concrete  woman  that  I 
have  seen  for  a  long  while.'  'Oh,'  said  Geraldine,  'she  puts  all 
her  wisdom  into  practice,  and  so  never  gets  into  scrapes.'     'Yes,' 

said  M in  a  tone  '  significant  of  much,' '  to  keep  out  of  doctrines 

is  the  only  way  to  keep  out  of  scrapes! '  Was  not  that  a  creditable 
speech  in  a  Unitarian? 

Miss  L is  a  frank,  rather  agreeable,  woman,  forty  or  therea- 
bouts, who  looks  as  if  she  had  gone  through  a  good  deal  of  hard- 
ship; not  'a  domineering  genius'  by  any  means,'  but  with  sense 
enough  for  all  practical  purposes,  such  as  admiring  you  to  the 
skies,  and  Cromwell  too.     The  rest  of  the  people  were  'chiefly 

musical,  Mr.  Carlyle.'    Mrs.  A is  very  much  fallen  off  in  her 

singing  since  last  year;  I  suppose,  from  squalling  so  much  to  her 
pupils.      She  is  to  dine  here   to-day,  and  ever  so  many  people 

besides,  to  meet  these  R 's.      Doubtless  we  shall  be   'borne 

through  with  an  honourable  throughbearing;'^  but  quietness  is 
best. 

And  now  I  must  go  and  walk,  while  the  sun  shines.  Our 
weather  here  is  very  showery  and  cold.  I  heard  a  dialogue  the 
other  morning  betwixt  Mr.  Paulet  and  his  factotum,  which  amused 
me  much.  The  factotum  was  mowing  the  lawn.  Mr.  Paulet 
threw  up  the  breakfast-room  window,  and  called  to  him:  '  Knolles! 
how  looks  my  wheat?'  'Very  distressed  indeed,  sir!'  'Are  we 
much  fallen  down? '  '  No,  sir,  but  we  are  black,  very  black.'  '  All 
this  rain,  I  should  have  thought,  would  have  made  us  fall  down?' 
'  Where  the  crops  are  heavy  they  are  a  good  deal  laid,  sir,  but  it 
would  take  a  vast  of  rain  to  lay  us ! '  '  Oh,  then,  Knolles,  it  is  because 
we  are  not  powerful  enough  that  we  are  not  fallen  down?'  '  Sir?' 
'  It  is  because  we  are  not  rich  enough? '  '  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  I  don't 
quite  understand?'  Mr.  Paulet  shut  the  window  and  returned  to 
his  breakfast.     God  keep  you,  dear. 

Your  own 

J.  C. 
LETTER  73. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Aug.  21,  1845. 

On  our  return  to  the  railway,  I  had  got  out  of  the  carriage,  and 

was  walking  backwards  and  forwards  when  two  gentlemen  passed, 

'Jeffrey?    'Pooh!  clever  enough,  but  not  a  domineering  genius ! '    (Poor 
Gray,  of  the  High  School,  Edinburgh,  thirty  years  before.) 
"  Burgher  minister's  thanksgiving  on  a  Sacramental  occasion. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  189 

one  of  whom  I  felt  to  know  quite  well,  and  after  a  little  considera- 
tion I  decided  it  was  Mr.  Storey,  of  Roseneatli.  Back  I  ran  and 
laid  my  hand  on  his  arm.  'See,' I  said,  ' how  much  better  my 
memory  is  than  yours! '  'I  know  your  face  quite  well,'  said  he, 
'  but  for  my  life  I  cannot  tell  who  you  are.'  '  Why,  I  am  Jeannie 
Welsh,  to  be  sure.'  If  you  had  only  seen  the  man  !  His  trans- 
ports were  '  rather  exquisite.'  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  any- 
body so  outrageously  glad  to  see  me  in  all  my  life  before.  It 
was  only  after  he  had  played  all  manner  of  antics  that  I  recol- 
lected he  had  once  been  in  love  with  me.  He  was  still  with  me 
when  Mrs.  Paulet  and  Geraldine  made  their  appearance,  and  they 
both  perceived  in  the  first  instance  that  the  gentleman  I  introduced 
to  them  had  once  been  my  lover;  two  women  alike  '  gleg.'  In  con- 
sideration of  which  good  taste  on  his  part,  Mrs.  Paulet  on  the  spot 
invited  him  to  go  home  with  us  to  dinner;  but  that  he  could  not 
do,  was  just  about  starting  for  London,  where  he  had  meant  to 
seek  me  out.  It  did  me  great  good  to  see  him,  especially  as  he 
looked  so  glad,  not  for  his  own  sake  particularly,  but  as  an  authen- 
tic piece  of  old  times. 

We  had  not  been  at  home  three  minutes  when  J.  M arrived 

to  e&v]j  dinner  by  appointment.  I  told  him  to-day  quite  frankly 
that  he  had  better  cut  Unitarianism  and  come  over  to  us.  He 
asked  me  who  I  meant  by  '  us,'  and  I  said  Carlyle.  He  sighed, 
and  shook  his  head,  and  said  something  about  a  man  being  bound 
to  remain  in  the  sphere  appointed  to  him  till  he  was  fairly  drawn 
out  of  it  by  his  conscience. 

LETTER  74. 

Carlj'le  was  himself  coming  North;  his  wife  to  return  to  London. 
She  had  written  him  an  angry  letter  about  his  changes  of  plan, 
which  had  disturbed  her  own  arrangements. — J.  A.  F. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Aug.  29. 

Dearest, — To  day  I  am  restored  to  my  normal  state  of  amiability 

through  tlie  unassisted  efforts  of  nature.     I  am  sorry  now  I  did 

not  repress  my  little  movement  of  impatience  yesterday;  a  lover 

would  have  found  it  charming,  perhaps  more  flattering  than  whole 

pages  of  '  wits  '  and  dolcezze  ;  but  husbands  are  so  obtuse.     They  do 

not  understand  one's  movements  of  impatience;  want  always  'to 

be  treated  with  the  respect  due  to  genius; '  exact  common  sense  of 

their  poor  wives  rather  than  '  the  finer  sensibilities  of  the  heart;' 


190  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  so  the  marriage  state ' — *  by  working  late  and  early,  has  come 
to  what  ye  see  ' — if  not  precisely  to  immortal  smash  as  yet,  at  least 
to  within  a  hair'sbreadth  of  it.  But  the  matrimonial  question  may 
lie  over  till  I  write  my  book  on  the  Rights  of  Women  and  make  an 
Egyptian  happy. 

LETTER  75. 
To  Charles  Oavan  Duffy,  Esq.,  Dublin 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Sept.  14,  1845. 

My  dear  Sir,— Thank  you  emphatically  for  the  beautiful  little 
volume  you  have  sent  me,  'all  to  myself  (as  the  children  say).  Be- 
sides the  prospective  pleasure  of  reading  it,  it  is  no  small  immedi- 
ate pleasure  to  me  as  a  token  of  j'our  remembrance;  for  when  one 
has  '  sworn  an  everlasting  friendship '  at  first  sight,  one  desires, 
very  naturally,  that  it  should  not  have  been  on  your  Irish  principle, 
'  with  the  reciprocity  all  on  one  side.' 

The  book  only  reached  me,  or  rather  I  only  reached  it,  last  night, 
on  my  return  home  after  an  absence  of  two  months,  in  search  of — 
what  shall  I  say? — a  religion?  Sure  enough,  if  I  were  a  good  Cath- 
olic, or  good  Protestant,  or  good  anything,  I  should  not  be  visited 
with  those  nervous  illnesses,  which  send  me  from  time  to  time  out 
into  space  to  get  myself  rehabilitated,  after  a  sort,  '  by  change  of 
air.' 

When  are  you  purposing,  through  the  strength  of  Heaven,  to 
break  into  open  rebellion?  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  in  a  civil 
war  I  should  possibly  find  my  mission  ' — moi  !  But  in  these  mere- 
ly talking  times,  a  poor  woman  knows  not  how  to  turn  herself;  es- 
pecially if,  like  myself,  she  '  have  a  devil '  always  calling  to  her, 
'March!  march!'  and  bursting  into  infernal  laughter  when  re- 
quested to  be  so  good  as  specif}^  whither. 

If  j^ou  have  not  set  a  time  for  taking  up  arms,  when  at  least  are 
you  coming  again  to  '  eat  terms '  (whatever  that  may  mean)?  I  feel 
what  my  husband  would  call  'a  real,  genuine,  healthy  desire '  to 
pour  out  more  tea  for  you. 

My  said  husband  has  finished  his  '  Cromwell '  two  weeks  ago, 
then  joined  me  at  a  place  near  Liverpool,  where  he  remained  a 

»  1  By  working  late  and  early 

We're  come  to  what  ye  see, 
Although  we  made  our  bridal  bed 
On  clean  pease  strae. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  191 

week  in  a  highly  reactionary  state;  and  then  he  went  North,  and  I 
South,  to  meet  again  when  he  has  had  enough  of  peat-bog  and  his 
platonically  beloved  '  silence ' — perhaps  in  three  weeks  or  a  montli 
hence.  Meanwhile  I  intend  a  great  household  earthquake,  through 
the  help  of  chimney-sweeps,  carpet-beaters,  and  other  like  products 
of  the  fall  of  our  first  parents.  And  so  you  have  our  history  up  to 
the  present  moment. 

Success  to  all  your  wishes,  except  for  the  destruction  of  us  Saxons, 
and  believe  me 

Always  very  cordially  yours, 

Jane  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  76. 

About  the  end  of  August  I  did  come  to  Seaforth ;  wearisome 

journey;  bulky  dull  man,  Sir  W.  B ,  as  I  found,  and  some  Irish 

admirers  talking  dull  antiquarian  pedantries  and  platitudes  all  day; 
I  as  third  party  silent,  till  at  length,  near  sunset,  bursting  out  upon 
them  and  their  Nennius,  to  their  terror  and  astonishment  and  al- 
most to  my  own.  Beautiful  reception  by  Mrs.  Paulet  and  her 
waiting  for  me  at  the  station.  Alas!  alas!  how  unspeakable  now! 
— T.  C. 

From  Liverpool  Carlyle  went  on  by  sea  to  Annan,  leaving  Mrs. 
Carlyle  to  go  home  to  Chelsea. — J.  A.  F. 


To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 


Chelsea:  Monday,  Sept.  15, 1845. 

I  was  sure  you  would  have  a  wretched  voyage;  the  very  smell  of 
that  boat  made  me  sick  for  all  the  rest  of  the  evening.  We  '  did 
intend '  to  have  waived  a  handkerchief  to  you  in  passing,  from  the 
roof  of  the  house;  but  the  fog  was  too  thick  '  for  anything.' 

Great  efforts  were  made  to  keep  me  longer,  but  it  is  my  principle 
always  to  go  away  before  having  exhausted  the  desire  to  keep  me; 
besides  that,  1  pique  myself  on  being  a  woman  of  my  word,  and  so 
me  void  in  Cheyne  Row  once  more. 

The  journey  back  was  a  considerable  of  a  bore;  the  train  I  came 
by  starting  at  eleven,  and,  supposed  by  Mr.  Paulet  to  answer  to 
that  which  leaves  here  at  ten,  did  not  land  me  at  Euston  Station 
till  half  after  nine!  And  all  that  while,  except  a  glass  of  porter  and 
a  sandwich,  'the  chief  characteristic  of  which  was  its  tenuity,''  I 

>  Mill's  account  of  some  celebrated  creature's  '  literature.' 


193  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

had  no  support  to  nature,  for  I  saw  no  sense  in  dining  at  Birming- 
ham when  I  expected  to  be  in  London  at  six.  John '  had  sent  a 
note  the  day  before,  proposing,  as  he  proposed  the  senna  for  Mary's 
children,  that  I  should  appoint  him  to  meet  me,  '  or  perhaps  I  had 
better  not. '  Not  having  got  the  letter  before  setting  out,  I  had,  of 
course,  no  option;  'which  was  probably  just  as  well.'  Arriving 
here  a  quarter  after  ten,  I  found  poor  little  Helen  half  distracted  at 
my  lateness;  'if  it  had  been  the  master,  she  would  never  have 
minded,  but  me,  that  was  alwaj's  to  a  moment!'  And  so  she  had 
been  taking  on  at  a  great  rate;  and  finally,  just  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore I  arrived,  got  John  despatched  to  look  for  me  (!)  at  the  station, 
in  case,  as  he  fancied,  I  had  preferred  coming  by  the  express  train; 
and,  through  these  good  intentions,  'highly  unfortunate,'^  I  was 
kept  up  till  hal  f  after  one ;  John  not  coming  back  till  half  after  twelve, 
and  I  too  polite  to  go  to  bed  without  awaiting  his  coming.  Moreover, 
the  carriage  I  came  in  had  pitched  like  a  ship  in  a  storm;  so  that  I 
was  shaken  into  an  absolute  fever;  '  the  flames  of  fever  had  seized 
on  me; '  and  what  with  all  this  fatigue,  and  the  excitement  of  feel- 
ing myself  at  home,  I  could  not  sleep  '  the  least  in  the  world,'  and 
have  not  recovered  mj'self  to  this  hour.  All  is  quiet  about  me  as 
quiet  can  be,  even  to  John's  boots;  but  what  signifies  that,  if  one 
have,  like  Anne  Cook's  soldier,  '  palpitation.' 

I  have  found  everything  here  as  well  or  better  than  could  have 
been  expected:  the  leech  alive  and  '  so  happy! '  Helen  radiant  with 
virtue's  own  reward;  the  economical  department  in  a  very  back- 
ward state,  but  not  confused,  for  it  is  clear  as  day  that  not  a  single 
bill  has  been  paid  since  I  left.  Helen  seems  to  have  had  four 
pounds  ten  for  the  incidental  expenses,  which  I  shall  inclose  her 
account  of,  to  amuse  Jamie;  and  there  is  a  national  debt  to  the 
butcher,  baker,  and  milkman,  amounting  to  about  five  pounds. 
So  that  the  housekeeping,  during  my  absence,  has  been  carried  on 
at  some  six  or  seven  shillings  a  week  less  than  if  I  had  been  at 
home,  which  is  all  as  it  should  be,  for  I  defy  three  people  to  live  as 
we  do  on  less  than  thirty  shillings  a  week.  I  do  think  the  little 
creature  is  very  careful;  as  for  honest,  that  I  have  been  sure  about 
long  ago. 

1  John  Carlyle,  then  staying  in  Cheyne  Row. 
3  Phrase  of  John's, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  193 

LETTER  77. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbng. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  Sept.  18, 1815. 
My  Dear,— I  have  got  quite  OTcr  the  fatigues  of  my  journey, 
which  had  been  most  provokingly  aggravated  for  me  by  a  circum- 
stance '  which  it  may  be  interesting  not  to  state ; '  the  last  two 
nights  I  have  slept  quite  as  well  as  I  was  doing  at  Seaforth.  The 
retirement  of  Cheyne  Row  is  as  deep  at  present  as  anyone  not  ab- . 
solutely  a  Timon  of  Athens  could  desire.  '  There  is,  in  the  first 
place'  (as  Mr.  Paulet  would  say),  the  physical  impossibility  (hardly 
anybody  being  left  in  town),  and  then  the  weather  has  been  so 
tempestuous  that  nobody  in  his  senses  (except  Mazzini,  who  never 
reflects  whether  it  be  raining  or  no)  would  come  out  to  make 
visits.  He  (Mazzini)  came  the  day  before  yesterday,  immediately 
on  receiving  notification  of  my  advent,  and  his  doeskin  boots 
were  oozing  out  water  in  a  manner  frightful  to  behold.  He  looked 
much  as  I  left  him,  and  appeared  to  have  made  no  progress  of  a 
practical  sort.  He  told  me  nothing  worth  recording,  except  that 
he  had  received  the  other  day  a  declaration  of  love.  And  this  he 
told  me  with  the  same  calma  and  historical  precision  with  which 
you  might  have  said  you  had  received  an  invitation  to  take  the 
chair  at  a  Mechanics'  Institute  dinner.  Of  course  I  asked  '  the 
particulars.'  'Why  not?'  and  I  got  them  fully,  at  the  same  time 
with  brevity,  and  without  a  smile.  Since  the  assassination  affair, ' 
he  had  received  many  invitations  to  the  house  of  a  Jew  merchant 
of  Italian  extraction,  where  there  are  several  daughters — '  what 
shall  I  say? — horribly  ugly:  that  is,  repugnant  for  me  entirely.' 
One  of  them  is  '  nevertheless  very  strong  in  music,'  and  seeing  that 
he  admired  her  playing,  she  had  '  in  her  head  confounded  the  play- 
ing with  the  player.'  The  last  of  the  only  two  times  he  had  availed 
himself  of  their  attentions,  as  they  sat  at  supper  with  Browning 
and  some  otliers,  '  the  youngest  of  the  horrible  family '  proposed  to 
him,  in  sotto  voce,  that  the}'  two  should  drink  '  a  goblet  of  wine '  to- 
gether, each  to  the  person  that  each  loved  most  in  the  world.  '  I 
find  your  toast  unegoist,'  8?>i\^  he,  'and  I  accept  it  with  pleasure.' 
'  But,'  said  she,  '  when  we  have  drunk,  we  will  then  tell  each  other 

>  Trial  (at  Paris)  of  some  calumnious  fellow,  who  had  accused  him  of  being 
privy  to,  &c.  &c. 

L-9 


194  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

to  whom?'  'Excuse  me,' said  he,  'we  will,  if  you  please,  drink 
without  conditions.'  Wliereupon  they  drank;  '  and  then  this  girl 
— what  shall  I  say?  bold,  upon  my  honour — proposed  to  tell  me  to 
whom  she  had  drunk,  and  trust  to  my  telling  her  after.  "As  you 
like."  "Well,  then,  it  was  to  you!"  "Really?"  said  I,  surprised, 
I  must  confess.  "Yes,"  said  she,  pointing  aloft;  "true  as  God 
exists."  "Well,"  said  I,  "I  find  it  strange."  "Now,  then,"  said 
she,  "to  whom  did  you  drink?"  "Ah!"  said  I,  "  that  is  another 
question ;"  and  on  this,  that  girl  became  ghastly  pale,  so  that  her 
sister  called  out,  "Nina!  what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  and  now, 
thanks  God,  she  has  sailed  to  Aberdeen.'  Did  you  ever  hear  any- 
thing so  distracted?  enough  to  make  one  ask  if  R has  not  some 

grounds  for  his  extraordinary  ideas  of  English  women. 

The  said  R presented  himself  here,  last  night,  in  an  interreg- 
num of  rain,  and  found  me  in  my  dressing-gown  (after  the  wetting), 
expecting  no  such  Himmelssendung.  I  looked  as  beautifully  un- 
conscious as  I  could  of  all  the  amazing  things  I  had  been  told  of 
him  at  Seaforth.  He  talked  much  of  a  'dreadful  illness;'  but 
looked  as  plump  as  a  pincushion,  and  had  plenty  of  what  Mr. 
Paulet  calls  '  colours  in  his  face.'  Hs  seemed  less  distracted  than 
usual,  and  professed  to  have  discovered,  for  the  first  time,  'the 
infinite  blessedness  of  work,'  and  also  to  be  'making  money  at  a 
great  rate— paying  off  his  debt  by  five  or  six  pounds  a  week.'  I 
remarked  that  he  must  surely  have  had  a  prodigious  amount  of 
debt  to  begin  with. 

Kind  regards  to  your  mother  and  the  rest. 

J.  C. 

LETTER  78. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotshrig. 

Tuesday,  Sept.  33, 1845. 
'Nothink''  for  you  to-day  in  the  shape  of  inclosure,  unless  I 
inclose  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Paulet  to  myself,  which  you  will  find  as 
'  entertaining '  to  the  full  as  any  of  mine.  And  notliink  to  be  told 
either,  except  all  about  the  play;*  and  upon  my  honour,  I  do  not 
feel  as  if  I  had  penny-a-liner  genius  enough,  this  cold  morning,  to 
make  much  entertainment  out  of  that.    Enough  to  clasp  one's  hand, 


»  Dumfries  postmaster  of  old:  ' Nothink  for  Cralgenputtock  to-day,  me'm  1 ' 
2  Private  theatricals  got  up  by  Dickens  and  Forster  for  some  benevolent 
purpose.— J.  A.  F. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  195 

and  exclaim,  like  Helen  before  the  Virgin  and  Child,  '  Oh,  how 
expensive!'  But 'how  did  the  creatures  get  through  it?'  Too 
well;  and  not  well  enough!  The  public  theatre,  scenes  painted  by 
Stansfleld,  costumes  'rather  exquisite,'  together  with  the  certain 
amount  of  proficiencj'  in  the  amateurs,  overlaid  all  idea  of  private 
theatricals;  and,  considering  it  as  public  theatricals,  the  acting  was 
'  most  insipid,'  not  one  performer  among  them  that  could  be  called 
good,  and  none  that  could  be  called  absolutely  bad.  Douglas  Jer- 
roid  seemed  to  me  the  best,  the  oddity  of  his  appearance  greatly 
helping  him;  he  plaj'ed  Stephen  the  Cull.  Forster  as  Kitely  and 
Dickens  as  Captain  Bobadil  were  much  on  a  par;  but  Forster 
preserved  his  identity,  even  through  his  loftiest  flights  of  Ma- 
creadyism;  while  poor  little  Dickens,  all  painted  in  black  and 
red,  and  affecting  the  voice  of  a  man  of  six  feet,  would  have 
been  unrecognisable  for  the  mother  that  bore  him!  On  the 
whole,  to  get  up  the  smallest  interest  in  the  thing,  one  needed  to 
be  always  reminding  oneself :  'all  these  actors  were  once  men!'' 
and  will  be  men  again  to-morrow  morning.  The  greatest  wonder 
for  me  was  how  they  had  contrived  to  get  together  some  six  or 
seven  hundred  ladies  and  gentlemen  (judging  from  the  clothes)  at 
this  season  of  the  year;  and  all  utterly  unknown  to  me,  except 
some  half-dozen. 

So  long  as  I  kept  my  seat  in  the  dress  circle  I  recognised  only 
Mrs.  Macready  (in  one  of  the  four  private  boxes),  and  in  my  nearer 
neighbourhood  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady  Gordon.  But  in  the  in- 
terval betwixt  the  play  and  the  farce  I  took  a  notion  to  make  my 
way  to  Mrs.  Macready.  John,  of  course,  declared  the  thing  '  clearly 
impossible,  no  use  trying  it ;'  but  a  servant  of  the  theatre,  overhear- 
ing our  debate,  politely  offered  to  escort  me  where  I  wished;  and 
then  John,  having  no  longer  any  difficulties  to  surmount,  followed, 
to  have  his  share  in  what  advantages  might  accrue  from  the 
change.  Passing  through  a  long  dim  passage,  I  came  on  a  tall 
man  leant  to  the  wall,  with  his  head  touching  the  ceiling  like  a 
caryatid,  to  all  appearance  asleep,  or  resolutely  trying  it  under 
most  unfavourable  circumstances.  '  Alfred  Tennyson ! '  I  exclaimed 
in  joyful  surprise.  '  Well! '  said  he,  taking  the  hand  I  held  out  to 
him,  and  forgetting  to  let  it  go  again.  'I  did  not  know  you  were 
in  town,'  said  I.     ' I  should  like  to  know  who  you  are,'  said  he;  'I 


>  Speech  of  a  very  yoxmg  Wedgwood  at  a  Woolwich  review;  '  Ah,  papa,  all 
these  soldiers  were  once  men  1 ' 


196  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

know  thai  I  know  you,  but  I  cannot  tell  your  nam*.'  And  I  had 
actually  lo  name  myself  to  liim.  Then  he  woke  up  in  good  earnest, 
and  said  he  had  been  meaning  to  come  to  Chelsea.  '  But  Carlyle  is 
in  Scotland,'  I  told  him  with  due  humility.  'So  I  heard  from 
Spedding  already,  but  I  asked  Spedding,  would  he  go  with  me  to 
see  Mrs.  Carlyle?  and  he  said  he  would.'  I  told  him  if  he  really 
meant  to  come,  he  had  better  not  wait  for  backing,  under  the  pres- 
ent circumstances;  and  then  pursued  my  way  lo  the  Macreadys' 
box;  where  I  was  received  by  William  (whom  I  had  not  divined) 
with  a  '  Gracious  heavens! '  and  spontaneous  dramatic  start,  which 
made  me  all  but  answer,  '  Gracious  heavens! '  and  start  dramatically 
in  my  turn.     And  then  I  was  kissed  all  round  by  his  women;  and 

poor  Nell  Gwyn,  Mrs.  M G ,  seemed  almost  pushed  by  the 

general  enthusiasm  on  the  distracted  idea  of  kissing  me  also!  They 
would  not  let  me  return  to  my  stupid  place,  but  put  in  a  third  chair 
for  me  in  front  of  their  box;  'and  the  latter  end  of  that  woman 
was  better  than  the  beginning.'  Macready  was  in  perfect  ecstasies 
over  the  'Life  of  Schiller,'  spoke  of  it  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  As 
*a  sign  of  the  times,'  I  may  mention  that  in  the  box  opposite  sat 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  with  Payne  Collier!  Next  to  us  were 
D'Orsay  and  'Milady!' 

Between  eleven  and  twelve  it  was  all  over — and  the  practical 
result?  Eight-and-sixpeuce  for  a  fly,  and  a  headache  for  twenty- 
four  hours!  I  went  to  bed  as  wearied  as  a  little  woman  could  be, 
and  dreamt  that  I  was  plunging  through  a  quagmire  seeking  some 
herbs  which  were  to  save  the  life  of  Mrs.  Maurice ;  and  that  Maurice 
was  waiting  at  home  for  them  in  an  agony  of  impatience,  while  I 
could  not  get  out  of  the  mud-water! 

Craik  arrived  next  evening  (Sunday),  to  make  his  compliments. 
Helen  had  gone  to  visit  numbers.'  John  was  smoking  in  the 
kitchen.  I  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  headacliey,  leaving  Craik  to  put 
himself  to  the  chief  expenditure  of  wind,  when  a  cab  drove  up. 
Mr.  Strachey?  No.  Alfred  Tennyson  alone!  Actually,  by  a  su- 
perhuman effort  of  volition  he  had  put  himself  into  a  cab,  nay, 
brought  himself  away  from  a  dinner  party,  and  was  there  to  smoke 
and  talk  with  me! — by  myself — me!  But  no  such  blessedness  was 
in  store  for  him.  Craik  prosed,  and  John  babbled  for  his  enter- 
tainment; and  I,  whom  he  had  come  to  see,  got  scarcely  any  speech 
with  him.  The  exertion,  however,  of  having  to  provide  him  with 
tea,  through  my  own  unassisted  ingenuity  (Helen  being  gone  for 

I '  No  5,'  or  the  like,  denoting  maid-servant  there. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  197 

the  evening)  drove  away  my  headache ;  also  perhaps  a  little  femi- 
nine vanity  at  having  inspired  such  a  man  vrith  the  energy  to  take 
a  cab  on  his  own  responsibility,  and  to  throw  himself  on  providence 
for  getting  away  again!    He  stayed  till  eleven,  Craik  sitting  him 

out,  as  he  sat  out  Lady  H ,  and  would  sit  out  the  Virgin  Mary 

should  he  find  her  here. 

What  with  these  unfortunate  mattresses  (a  work  of  necessity) 
and  other  processes  almost  equally  indispensable,  I  have  my  hands 
full,  and  feel  'worried,'  which  is  worse.  I  fancy  my  earthquake 
begins  to  '  come  it  rather  strong'  for  John's  comfort  and  ease,  but 
I  cannot  help  that;  if  I  do  not  get  on  with  my  work,  such  as  it  is, 
what  am  I  here  for? 

Yours, 

J.  C. 

LETTER  79. 


To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 


Chelsea:  Thursday  evening,  Sept.  25  (?),  1845. 

Here  is  an  inclosure  that  will  '  do  thee  neither  ill  n'r  gude ! '  It 
lay  along  with  two  brochures,  one  blue,  one  pea-green — the  thin- 
nest brochures  in  every  sense  that  ever  issued  from  '  tlie  womb  of 
uncreated  night! '  '  tlie  insipid  offspring'  of  that  '  crack  brained  en- 
thusiastic '  who  calls  herself  Henri  Paris;  one  entitled  GrossmiUler- 
lein,  in  verse,  the  other — oh,  Heavens! — La  femme  libre,  et  V eman- 
cipation de  la  femme:  Rhapsodie  d  propos  des  Saint- Simoniens,  in 
prose — dead  prose. 

I  have  looked  into  it  over  my  tea,  and  find  that  the  only  eman- 
cipation for  femme  lies  in  her  having  '  le  saint  courage  de  rester 
'oierge!'  Glad  tidings  of  great  joj'  for — Robertson!  '  Ouerroyez 
done,  si  vous  powcez,  conire  les  lioiumes  ! '  exclaims  the  great  female 
mind  in  an  enthusiasm  of  platitude.  'Mais  pour  qtc'ils  daignent 
accepter  totre  defi,  prouvez-leur,  avant  tout,  que  vous  avez  appris 
.     .     .    a  vous  passer  d'eux  ! ' 

I  rose  yesterday  morning  with  an  immense  desire  for  '  change  of 
air.'  I  had  made  the  house  into  the  liveliest  representation  of 
'Hell  and  Tommy  '•  (I  'Tommy'),  and  it  struck  me  that  I  should 
do  well  to  escape  from  it  for  some  hours;  so  John  and  I  left  to- 

'  Buller's  definition  to  me  of  a  Martin  picture  (engraving  rather)  on  Jlac- 
ready's  staircase  one  gala  night.  Picture  mad-  mad  as  Bedlam,  all,  and  with 
one  '  small  figure  '  ('  Tommy  ')  notably  prominent. 


198  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

gether.  In  the  King's  Road  he  picked  up  a  cab  to  take  back  for 
his  luggage,  and  I  went  on  to  Clarence  Terrace,  where  I  dined, 
and  by  six  I  was  at  home  again  to  tea.  Mrs.  Macready  had  re- 
turned to  Eastbourne,  having  only  come  up  for  the  day  to  attend 
the  play  That  I  was  prepared  for,  as  she  had  invited  me  to  go 
along  with  her,  but  I  was  not  prepared  to  find  poor  Macready  ill 
in  bed,  with  two  doctors  attending  him.     He  had  caught  a  horrible 

cold  that  night,  from  seeing  Mrs.   M G to  her  carriage 

through  the  rain  '  in  thin  shoes; '  had  been  obliged  to  break  an  en- 
gagement at  Cambridge.  Poor  Letitia '  was  very  concerned  about 
him,  but  would  still  not  let  me  go  without  some  dinner.  To-day 
she  writes  to  me  that  he  is  better.  There  seemed  a  good  deal  of 
jealousy  in  Macreadydom  on  the  subject  of  the  amateur  actors.  A 
'  tremendous  puff  of  the  thing '  had  appeared  in  the  Times — '  more 
kind  really  than  ever  the  Times  showed  itself  towards  William!'* 
John,  when  he  came  at  night  to  pay  '  his  compliments  of  digestion,' 
suggested,  with  his  usual  originality,  'it  was  probably  that  (the 
puff)  which  had  made  Macready  so  ill  just  now!'  Forster,  it 
seems,  bears  away  the  palm;  but  they  have  all  had  their  share  of 
praise,  '  and  are  in  such  a  state  of  excitement,  poor  things,  as 
never  was  seen! '     '  It  will  not  stop  here,'  Miss  Macready  thinks. 

To-day  I  have  not  been  out  at  all.  I  rose  at  seven,  to  receive— a 
sweep!  And  have  been  helping  Helen  to  scrub  in  the  library  till 
now— seven  in  the  evening.  John^  came  rushing  in  soon  after 
nine  this  morning:  he  had  left  a  breast-pin  in  the  glass-drawer,  and 
'supposed  it  would  not  be  lost  yet!'  Then  having  found  it,  he 
brought  it  to  me  in  the  library,  where  I  was  mounted  on  the  steps, 
covered  with  dust,  to  ask,  whether  I  thought  'the  diamonds  real ; ' 
and  what  I  thought  '  such  a  thing  would  cost.'  It  was  the  pin  he 
got  years  ago  in  Italy.  I  told  him  I  would  not  take  upon  me 
to  value  it,  but  I  could  learn  its  value  for  him.  '  From  whom? ' 
'  From  Collier  the  jeweller.'  '  Where  does  he  live?'  (with  immense 
eagerness.)  '  At  the  top  of  Sloane  Street.'  '  But  wouldn't  he  tell 
me,— if  I  asked  him?  me,  myself? '     'I  dare  say  he  would,'  said  I 


1  His  sister,  a  very  amiable  gentlewoman. 

2  '  William  '  was  the  good  Mrs.  M.'s  constant  designation  for  her  husband. 

3  John's  careless,  helter-skelter  ways  had  been  notable  since  his  boyhood, 
and  which,  taking  his  ease  among  us,  were  frequently  an  object  of  satire  to 
her  as  to  the  rest  of  us.  The  good,  afEectionate,  honest,  and  manly  character 
and  fine  talents  that  lay  deeper  she  also  knew,  as  we  all  of  us  did,  though 
with  less  of  vocal  recognition. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  199 

soothingly,  for  he  seemed  to  be  going  rapidly  out  of  his  wits,  with 
all-absorbing  desire  to  know  the  value  of  that  pin !  If  I  had  not 
seen  him  the  night  before  playing  with  his  purse  and  some  sover- 
eigns, I  might  have  thought  he  was  on  the  point  of  carrying  it  to  a 
pawnshop  to  get  himself  a  morsel  of  victuals!  But  when,  giving 
up  the  diamonds  as  glass,  he  passed  to  the  individual  value  of  the 
turquoise  in  the  middle,  flesh  and  blood  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  I  returned  to  my  dusting  in  silence;  whereupon  he  looked  at 
his  watch,  and  found  he  '  was  obliged  to  go  off  to  the  British  Mu- 
seum.' What  in  all  the  world  will  become  of  him?  He  seems  to 
be  more  than  ever  without  '  fixed  point,'  without  will,  without  so 
much  as  a  good  wish!  unless  it  be  to  enjoy  a  tolerable  share  of  ma- 
terial comfort,  without  '  Amt,'  and  as  much  as  possible  without 
'  Geld.'  However,  now  that  he  has  '  concluded  with  his  landlady,' 
it  is  no  business  of  mine  how  he  flounders  on,  '  bating  no  jot  of 
heart  and  hope,'  as  he  says.  My  own  life  is  rather  of  the  flounder- 
ing sort,  only  I  have  the  grace  to  have  '  abated  heart  and  hope '  in 
it  to  such  an  extent  as  to  think  sometimes  that,  '  if  I  were  dead, 
and  a  stone  at  my  head,'  perhaps  it  would  be  be ter! '  * 

Not  a  soul  has  been  here  since  Alfred  Tennyson — except  the 
'dark-fated '  Krasinski,^  who  did  not  get  in.  I  know  his  rap,  and 
signified  to  Helen  to  say  '  I  was  sick — or  dead ' — what  she  liked ! 
So  she  told  him,  'the  mistress  was  bad  with  her  head  to-night,' 
which,  if  not  precisely  the  naked  truth,  was  a  Gambardella  '  aspi- 
ration '  towards  it.  But  besides  ^liss  Macread}'  yesterday  I  saw 
Helps,  who  seems  to  me  '  dwindling  away  into  an  unintelligible 
whinner.'  I  met  him  in  the  King's  Road,  just  as  John  called  his 
cab,  and  he  walked  back  part  of  the  way  with  me,  decidedly  too 
solemn  for  his  size! 

I  get  no  letters  in  these  days  except  from  you.  Geraldine  has 
even  fallen  dumb;  still  out  of  sorts  I  fancy,  or  absorbed  in  her 
'one-eyed  Egyptian;'  perhaps  scheming  a  new  'work!'  I  care 
very  little  which.     Kind  regards  wherever  they  are  due, 

J.  C. 


•  Forlorn  old  pauper,  entering  a  school-room  (to  dame  and  little  children): 

'  rm  a  poor  helpless  cratur; 
If  I  was  dead,  and  a  stone  at  my  head, 
I  think  it  would  be  bey-tur  [better] ! ' 

*  Amiable,  mild  gentleman,  Polish  exile;  utterly  poor;  died  in  Edinburgh 
ten  years  afterwards. 


200  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  80. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Wednesday,  Oct.  1845  [some  evening,  about  post-time]. 

Well!  now  I  am  subsided  again;  set  in  for  a  quiet  evening,  at 
leisure  to  write,  and  with  plenty  to  write  about.  I  know  not  how 
it  is;  I  seem  to  myself  to  be  leading  a  most  solitary,  and  virtuous, 
and  eventless  life  here,  at  this  dead  season  of  the  year;  and  yet 
when  I  sit  down  to  write,  I  have  so  many  things  to  tell  always  that 
I  am  puzzled  where  to  begin.  Decidedly,  I  was  meant  to  have 
been  a  subaltern  of  the  Daily  Press — not  '  a  penny-lady, ' '  but  a 
penny-a-liner;  for  it  is  not  only  a  faculty  with  me,  but  a  necessity 
of  my  nature  to  make  a  great  deal  out  of  nothing. 

To  begin  with  something  I  have  been  treasuring  up  for  a  week 
(for  I  would  not  holloa  till  we  were  out  of  the  wood):  I  have  put 
down  the  dog  l"^  '  The  dog!  wasn't  he  put  down  at  Christmas,  with 
a  hare? '  It  seemed  so;  and  '  we  wished  we  might  get  it! '  But  on 
my  return  I  found  him  in  the  old  place,  at  the  back  of  the  wall, 
barking  'like — like — anything!'  'Helen!'  I  said,  with  the  calm- 
ness of  a  great  despair,  '  is  not  that  the  same  dog?  '  '  'Deed  is 
it!'  said  she,  'and  the  whole  two  months  you  have  been  away,  its 
tongue  has  never  lain!  it  has  driven  even  me  almost  distracted! '  I 
said  no  more,  but  I  had  my  own  thoughts  on  the  subject.  Poison? 
a  pistol  bullet?  the  Metropolitan  Police?  Some  way  or  other  that 
dog — or  I — must  terminate!  Meanwhile  I  went  on  cleaning  with 
what  heart  I  could.  'My  Dear!  Will  you  hasten  to  the  catastro- 
phe?' I  am  hastening,  slowly— /es^ma  leiite.  Bless  your  heart! 
'  there's  nothing  pushing' — 'the  rowins'  are  a'  in  the  loft '  for  this 
night!  Well!  it  was  the  evening  after  John's  departure.  I  had 
been  too  busy  all  day  to  listen ;  the  candles  were  lit,  and  I  had  set 
myself  with  my  feet  on  the  fender  to  enjoy  the  happiness  of  be- 
ing let  alone,  and  to bid  myself  'consider.'     'Bow-wow-wow,' 

1  In  Scotland  the  '  Penny  Ladies  '  (extraneously  so-called)  were  busy, 
'  benevolent '  persons;  subscribers  of  a  penny  a  week  for  educating,  &c.  &c., 
not  with  much  success. 

a  Oh,  my  heroine !  Endless  were  her  feats  in  regard  to  all  this,  and  her 
gentle  talent  too  I  I  could  not  have  lived  here  but  for  that,  had  there  been 
nothing  more. 

'  Saying  of  my  indolent  sister-in-law,  brother  Alick's  wife,  on  one  occa- 
sion. '  Rowins '  are  wool  completely  carded,  ready  for  the  wheel  when  it 
comes  down  from,'  the  loft.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  201 

roared  the  dog,  'and  dashed  the  cup  of  fame  from  my  brow!' 
'Bow-wow-wow'  again,  and  again,  till  the  whole  universe  seemed 
turned  into  one  great  dog-kennel!  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands  and 
groaned  inwardly.  'Oh,  destiny  accursed!  what  use  of  scrubbing 
and  sorting?  All  this  availeth  me  nothing,  so  long  as  the  dog  sit. 
teth  at  the  washerman's  gate ! '  I  could  have  burst  into  tears,  but  I 
did  not!  'I  was  a  republican — before  the  Revolution;  and  I 
never  wanted  energy ! '     I  ran  for  ink  and  paper,  and  wrote : — 

'  Dear  Gambardella, — You  once  offered  to  shoot  some  cocks  for 
me;  that  service  I  was  enabled  to  dispense  with;  but  now  I  accept 

your  devotion.      Come,  if  you  value  my  sanity,  and .'    But 

here  '  a  sudden  thought  struck  me.'  He  could  not  take  aim  at  the 
dog  without  scaling  the  high  wall,  and  in  so  doing  he  would  cer- 
tainly be  seized  by  the  police;  so  I  threw  away  that  first  sibylline 
leaf,  and  wrote  another — to  the  washerman !  Once  more  I  offered 
him  'any  price  for  that  horrible  dog — to  hang  it,'  offered  'to  settle 
a  yearly  income  on  it  if  it  would  hold  its  accursed  tongue.'  I  im- 
plored, threatened,  imprecated,  and  ended  by  proposing  that,  in 
case  he  could  not  take  an  immediate  final  resolution,  he  should  in 
the  interim  '  make '  the  dog  dead-drunk  with  a  bottle  of  whiskey, 
which  I  sent  for  the  purpose! '  Helen  was  sent  off  with  the  note 
and  the  whiskey;  and  I  sat,  all  concentrated,  awaiting  her  return, 
as  if  the  fate  of  nations  had  depended  on  my  diplomacy;  and  so  it 
did,  to  a  certain  extent!  Would  not  the  inspirations  of  'the  first 
man  in  Europe '  be  modified,'  for  the  next  six  months  at  least,  by 
the  fact,  who  should  come  off  victorious,  I  or  the  dog?  Ah!  it  is 
curioug  to  think  how  first  men  in  Europe,  and  first  women  too, 
are  acted  upon  by  the  inferior  animals! 

Helen  came,  but  even  before  that  had  '  the  raven  down  of  night ' 
smoothed  itself  in  heavenly  silence!  God  grant  this  were  not  mere 
accident;  oh,  no!  verily  it  was  not  accident.  The  washerman's 
two  daughters  had  seized  upon  and  read  the  note;  and  what  was 
death  to  me  had  been  such  rare  amusement  to  them  that  they  '  fell 
into  fits  of  laughter'  in  the  first  place;  and,  in  the  second  place, 
ran  down  and  untied  the  dog,  and  solemnly  pledged  themselves 
that  it  should  'never  trouble  me  more!'  At  Christmas  they  had 
sent  it  into  the  country  for  three  months  'to  learn  to  be  quiet,' 
and  then  chained  it  in  the  old  place;  now  they  would  take  some 
final  measure.     Next  morning  came  a  note  from  the  washerman 

'  Mark,  mark! 

*  Quiz,  mainly  this,  and  glad  mockery  of  some  who  deserved  it. 


203  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

himself,  written  on  glazed  paper,  with  a  crow-quill,  apologizing, 
promising;  he  could  not  put  it  away  entirely;  as  it  was  'a  great 
protection'  to  him,  and  '  belonged  to  a  relation'  (who  shall  say 
where  sentiment  may  not  exist!),  but  he  '  had  untied  it,  and  would 
take  care  it  gave  me  no  further  trouble,'  and  he  'returned  his 
grateful  thanks  for  what  'as  been  sent. '  It  is  a  week  ago ;  and  one 
may  now  rest  satisfied  that  the  tying  up  caused  the  whole  nui- 
sance. The  dog  is  to  be  seen  going  about  there  all  day  in  the 
yard,  like  any  other  Christian  dog,  '  carrying  out '  your  principle 
of  silence,  not  merely  '  platonicallj',' but  practically.  Since  that 
night,  as  Helen  remarks,  '  it  has  not  said  one  word!'  So,  'thanks 
God,'  you  still  have  quietude  to  return  to! ' 

I  took  tea  with  Sterling  on  Monday  night;  walked  there,  and 
he  sent  the  carriage  home  with  me.  It  is  very  difficult  to  know 
liow  to  do  with  him.  He  does  not  seem  to  me  essentially  mad; 
but  rather  mad  with  the  apprehension  of  madness;  a  state  of  mind 
I  can  perfectly  understand — moi.  He  forgets  sometimes  Anthony's 
name,  for  example,  or  mine;  or  how  many  children  he  has;  and 
then  he  gets  into  a  rage,  that  he  cannot  recollect;  and  then  he 
stamps  about,  and  rings  the  bell,  and  brings  everybody  in  the  house 
to  '  help  him  to  remember;'  and  when  all  will  not  do,  he  exclaims: 
'I  am  going  mad,  by  God!'  and  then  he  is  mad,  as  mad  as  a 
March  hare.  I  can  do  next  to  nothing  for  him,  beyond  cheering 
him  up  a  little,  for  the  moment.  Yesterday,  again,  I  went  a  little 
drive  with  him;  of  course,  not  without  Saunders  as  well  as  the 
coachman.  He  told  me  that  when  he  heard  I  had  written  about 
him,  he  'cried  for  three  daj^s.'  Anthony's  desertion  seems  the 
central  point,  around  which  all  his  hypochondriacal  ideas  congre- 
gate. Anthony  has  never  written  him  the  scrape  of  a  pen,  since 
he  left  him  insensible  at  Manchester;  nor  even  written  about  him, 
so  far  as  himself  or  his  manservant  knows. 

Whom  else  have  I  seen?  Nobody  else,  I  think,  except  Maz- 
zini,  whom  I  was  beginning  to  fancy  the  Jewess  must  have  made 
an  enlevement  of;  and  enleve  he  had  been,  sure  enough,  but  not  by 
the  Jewess — by  himself,  and  only  the  length  of  Oxford ;  or  rather 
he  meant  to  go  oulj''  the  length  of  Oxford;  but,  with  his  usual 
practicality,  let  himself  be  carried  sixty  miles  further,  to  a  place 
he  called  Swinton.''  Then,  that  the  journey  back  might  have  also 
Its  share  of  misadventure,  he  was  not  in  time  to  avail  himself  of 


1  Well  do  I  remember  that  dog,  behind  the  wall,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.    Never  heard  more.  ^  Swindon. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  203 

the  place  he  had  taken  'in  the  second  class;'  but  had  to  jump  up, 
'quite  promiscuously,' beside  'the  conductor,' where  he  had  'all 
the  winds  of  Heaven  blowing  on  him,  and  through  him;'  the  re- 
sult a  'dreadful  cold.'  Dreadful,  it  must  have  been  when  it  con- 
fined him  to  the  house.  Meanwhile  he  had  had — two  other  declar- 
ations of  love !  !  They  begin  to  be  as  absurd  as  the  midges  in  Mr. 
Fleming's  '  right  eye.'  '  What!  more  of  them? '  'Ah  yes!  unhap- 
pily!  they  begin  to — what  shall  I  say? — rain  on  me  like  sauterelles!  ' 
One  was  from  a  young  lady  in  Genoa,  who  sent  him  a  bracelet  of 
her  hair  (the  only  feature  he  has  seen  of  her) ;  and  begged  '  to  be 
united  to  him — in  plotting!'  'That  one  was  good,  upon  my 
honour.'  'And  the  other?'  'Ah!  from  a  woman  here,  married, 
thanks  God ;  though  to  a  man  fifty  years  more  old — French,  and  sings 
— the  other  played,  decidedly  my  love  of  music  has  consequences! ' 
'  And  how  did  she  set  about  it?  '  '  Franchement ;  through  a  mu- 
tual friend ;  and  then  she  sent  me  an  invitation  to  supper ;  and  I 
returned  for  answer  that  I  was  going  to  Oxford;  where  I  still  am, 
and  will  remain  a  long,  long  time ! '  Emancipation  de  la  femme  ! 
one  would  say,  it  marches  almost  faster  than  intellect.  And  now, 
if  there  be  not  clatter  enough  for  one  night,  I  have  a  great  many 
half-moons  and  stars  to  cut  in  paper  before  I  go  to  bed.  For  what 
purpose?  That  is  my  secret.  '  And  you  wish  that  you  could  tell! ' 
Good  night.     Scldaf  wohl.  J.  C. 

I  told  Scott,  in  a  note,  to  despatch  Mrs.  Rich's  letter  immedi- 
.ately. 

LETTER  81. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotshrig. 

Chelsea:  Tuesday,  Oct.  7,  1845. 

'Ah!'  my  dear!  Yes  indeed!  If  I  could  'quench  the  devil' 
also,  you  might  turn  your  face  homewards  with  a  feeling  of  com- 
parative security.  But  Sybilline  leaves,  whisky,  game  even,  all  the 
means  of  seduction  which  I  have  at  my  poor  command,  cannot 
gain  him.  Still,  as  in  the  time  of  old  Dr.  Ritchie,  '  he  goeth  about, 
seeking  whom  he  may  devour,'  and  does  not,  as  Helen  was  remarking 
tliis  morning  the  dog  did,  ever  since  it  had  been  set  at  large,  'be 
have  just  like  any  other  rational  being.'  One  must  be  content  to 
'stave  nim  off,'  then,  better  or  worse.  Against  the  devil  my 
'notes'  themselves  are  powerless.'  But  here,  on  the  table  before 
me  at  this  moment,  one  would  say,  lay  means  enough  to  keep  him 

1  '  Against  stupidity  the  gods  themselves  are  powerless '  (Schiller). 


204  LETTERS  AND   MEMORIALS  OF 

fit  h&y  fer  a  while:  first,  two  series  of  discourses  on,  first,  '  Chris- 
tian Humiliation ';  second,  'The  City  of  God,' by  C.  H.  Terrot, 
D.D.,  Bishop  of  Edinburgh;  and  secondly,  a  pair  of  pistols  with 
percuBsion-locks. 

Are  not  the  Fates  kind  in  sending  me  two  such  windfalls  in  one 
evening?  When  I  have  made  myself  sufficiently  desperate  by  study 
of  the  one,  I  can  blow  my  brains  out  with  the  other.  Come  what 
may,  one  has  always  one's  '  City  of  God '  left  and — one's  pistols. 

Meanwhile,  I  am  going  to  dine  with .  She  met  Dar- 
win here  yesterday,  and  asked  him  to  fetch  me ;  and  though  I  made 
great  eyes  at  him,  he  answered,  '  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life ! ' 
And  so,  for  want  of  moral  courage  to  say  No  on  my  own  basis,  I 
am  in  for  a  stupid  evening  and  Italian  cookery;  but  I  shall  take 
some  sewing  with  me,  and  stipulate  to  be  brought  away  early.  I 
have  been  all  day  giving  the  last  finish  to  the  china  closet;  and  am 
shocked,  this  moment,  by  the  town  clock  striking  four,  before  my 
letter  is  well  begun;  I  will  send  it,  nevertheless,  lest  you  should 
'  take  a  notion  '  to  be  anxious. 

I  am  also  under  the  disagreeable  necessity  of  warning  you  that 
you  must  bring  some  money.  '  The  thirty  pounds  I  left  done  al- 
ready?' No,  not  done  absolutely,  but  near  it;  and  yet  my  living 
has  been  as  moderate  as  well  could  be,  and  my  little  improvements 
have  all  been  made  off  the  money  that  was  to  have  been  squan- 
dered in  Wales.  I  wish  you  had  had  the  paying  out  at  the  end  of 
the  quarter  instead  of  the  beginning;  it  is  so  provoking,  when  I 
wanted  so  much  to  have  been  praised  for  my  economy,  to  have  to 
say  instead,  you  must  bring  more  money.  But  just  take  the  trou- 
ble to  see  how  it  has  gone,  without  any  mention  of  victuals  at  all : — 

£  s.  d. 

Your  debt  to  clear  off 4  18  6 

Water-rate 6  6 

Church-rate 11  3 

Rent 8  15  0 

Aldin's  quarter's  account        .        .        .        .580 

Taxes 3    2  2^ 

'  To  Helen  of  wages 10  0 

24    1  5^ 
After  so  prosaic  a  page  as  that,  what  more  were  it  possible  to 
write,  even  if  I  had  the  time?    Ach  Oott!    Ever  yours, 

Jane  Carltle. 

'  With  the  receipts  all  inclosed.  Oh,  my  '  poverty '  I  richer  to  me  than  the 
Indies  I 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  206 

LETTER  83. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig 

Sunday,  Oct.  12, 1845. 

Considering  that  a  letter  of  twelve  pages  "will  reach  you  in  the 
course  of  nature  to-morrow  morning,  another  for  Tuesday  morn- 
ing seems  to  be  about  as  superfluous 'as  Mr.  Kenny's  second  twin.* 
Nevertheless,  to  be  punctual  to  orders,  this  little  sheet  comes  '  hop- 
ping to  find  you  in  the  same.' 

I  have  been  from  twelve  to-day  till  now  (six  in  the  evening)  with 
old  Sterling.  He  came  to  ask  me  to  drive,  and  dine  with  him  after, 
which  humble  prayer  I  could  comply  with  in  both  its  branches — the 
day  being  Sunday,  and  nothing  particular  doing  at  home.  In  pass- 
ing along  Brompton  Road,  he  suddenly  pulled  the  check  string  and 
said  to  me  in  a  solemn  voice,  '  Now,  will  you  please  to  accompany 
me  to  the  regions  of  the  dead?'  '  Certainly  not,'  said  I,  and  called 
to  the  coachman,  '  Drive  on ! '  '  He  is  rapidly  improving  in  his  physi- 
cal part;  but  the  head  is  confused  as  much  as  ever.  He  began  cry- 
ing about  his  wife  to-day;  and,  after  declaring  that  '  she  had  reason 
to  be  satisfied  with  his  grief  for  her  loss,'  finished  off  with  'and 
now  I  say  it  really  and  religiously,  I  have  just  one  hope  left,  and 
that  is — to  be  left  a  widower  as  soon  as  possible.' 

On  my  return,  I  found  on  the  table  the  cards  of  Mrs.  N and 

Mrs.  A .     '  How  these  two  women  do  hate  one  another! '  '^    But 

they  are  now,  it  would  seem,  not  ashamed  to  drive  out  together. 

I  was  rather  sorry  to  have  missed  Mrs.  N .    Who  should  drop  in 

on  me  yesterday  at  dinner,  but  little  Bolle,  looking  fat  and  almost 
contented?  She  was  passing  through  with  one  of  her  pupils,  whom 
she  had  been  living  with  six  weeks  at  Sevenoaks,  to  be  near  a  doctor 
'for  diseases  of  the  skin.'  She  had  fallen  in  there  with  a  fine  lady 
who  possessed  Mr.  Carlyle's  works,  and  said  she  liked  them  in 
many  respects,  and  always  took  his  part  in  public ;  that  there  was 
one  thing  about  him  '  deeply  to  be  deplored.'  Bolte  asked,  '  What? ' 
'Why,  you  know,  on  certain  subjects  Mr.  Carlyle  thinks  for  him- 
self, and  that  is  so  very  wrong.' 

>  Kenny,  tlie  playwright,  married  to  the  widow  of  ITolcroft  (the  nervous 
Irish  gentleman,  to  black  French  giantess,  afraid  of  nothing)  had  an  impor- 
tant Inquest  depending  'on  the  birth  of  a  child.'  Twins  duly  came,  where- 
upon anxious  Kenny  dropped  off  to  Basil  Montague  to  inquire:  '  But  will  that 
do?    Two  instead  of  one'/ ' 

*  So  had  some  spiteful  fellow  once  whispered  her,  in  some  rout,  on  seeing 
them  together. 


206  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

LETTER  83. 

John  Fortster,  Esq. ,  58  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Bay  House :  Sunday,  Dec.  7,  1845. 

My  dear  Mr.  Forster, — A  woman  is  constantly  getting  warned 
against  following  'the  impulses  of  her  heart!'  Why,  I  never 
could  imagine!  for  all  the  grand  blunders  I  am  conscious  of  having 
committed  in  life  have  resulted  from  neglecting  or  gainsaying 
the  impulses  of  my  heart,  to  follow  the  insights  of  my  understand- 
ing, or,  still  worse,  of  other  understandings.  And  so  lam  now  ar- 
rived at  this  with  it,  that  I  have  flung  my  understanding  to  the  dogs; 
and  think,  do,  say,  and  feel  just  exactly  as  nature  prompts  me. 
Well,  having  just  finished  the  reading  of  your  article  on  '  Crom- 
well,' nature  prompts  me  to  take  pen  and  paper,  and  tell  you  that 
I  think  it  devilishly  well  done,  and  quite  as  meritorious  as  the  book 
itself;  only  that  there  is  not  so  much  bulk  of  it!  Now,  do  not  fancy 
it  is  my  wife-nature  that  is  so  excited.  I  am  a  bad  wife  in  so  far  as 
regards  care  about  what  is  said  of  my  husband's  books  in  news- 
papers or  elsewhere.  I  am  always  so  thankful  to  have  them  done, 
and  out  of  the  house,  that  the  praise  or  blame  they  meet  with  after- 
wards is  of  the  utmost  insignificance  to  me.  It  is  not,  then,  be- 
cause your  article  covers  him  with  generous  praise  that  I  am  so 
delighted  with  it;  but  because  it  is  full  of  sense,  and  highmindedness 
of  its  own;  and  most  eloquently  written.  As  Mrs.  Norton  would 
say,  'I  love  you  for  writing  it; '  only  nobody  will  impute  tome  a 
fraudulent  use  of  that  word ! 

My  pen — all  pens  here — refuse  to  write  intelligibly.  We  are  to 
come  home  in  a  fortnight  hence,  and  I  hope  to  see  you  then. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

J.  C. 

Love  to  the  Macreadys. 

LETTER  84. 
To  Mrs.  Russell,  Thornliill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Dec.  30,  1845. 
Dearest  Mrs.  Russell, — We  are  just  returned  from  our  Hampshire 
visit;'  and  I  can  answer  for  one  of  us  being  so  worn  out  with 

1  After  a  long  visit  to  Mr.  and  Lady  Harriet  Baring,  at  Bay  House,  Alver- 
stoke. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  207 

• 

'  strenuous  idleness,'  as  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  been  before  1 
Six  weeks  have  I  been  doing  absolutely  nothing  but  playing  at 
battledore  and  shuttlecock,  chess,  talking  nonsense,  and  getting  rid 
of  a  certain  fraction  of  this  mortal  life  as  cleverlj^  and  uselessly  as 
possible;  notliing  could  exceed  the  sumptuosity  and  elegance  of  the 
whole  thing,  nor  its  uselessness!  Oh  dear  me!  I  wonder  why  so 
many  people  wish  for  high  position  and  great  wealth,  when  it  is 
such  an  'open  secret'  what  all  that  amounts  to  in  these  days, 
merely  to  emancipating  people  from  all  the  practical  difficulties, 
which  might  teacli  them  the  facts  of  things,  and  sympathy  with 
their  fellow  creatures.  This  Lady  Harriet  Baring,  whom  we  have 
just  been  staying  with,  is  the  very  cleverest  woman,  out  of  sight, 
that  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  (and  I  have  seen  all  our  '  distinguislied 
authoresses');  moreover,  she  is  full  of  energy  and  sincerity,  and 
has,  I  am  sure,  an  excellent  heart;  yet  so  perverted  has  she  been 
by  the  training  and  life-long  humouring  incident  to  her  high  posi- 
tion that  I  question  if  in  her  whole  life  she  has  done  as  much  for 
her  fellow  creatures  as  my  mother  in  one  year,  or  whether  she  will 
ever  break  through  the  cobwebs  slie  is  entangled  in,  so  as  to  beany- 
tliing  other  than  the  most  amusing  and  most  graceful  woman  of 
her  time.  The  sight  of  such  a  woman  should  make  one  very  con- 
tent with  one's  own  trials  even  wlien  they  feel  to  be  rather  hard! 

To  jump  to  the  opposite  ends  of  creation,  how  is  old  Mary? 
Let  her  have  her  usual  tokens  of  remembrance  from  me,  poor  old 
soul ! — and  Margaret.  Say  kind  words  to  them  both  from  me ;  which, 
I  know,  is  always  a  pleasant  commission  to  one  so  kindly  disposed 
as  you  are. 

I  have  never  yet  thanked  you  for  your  welcome  letter;  but  not 
the  less  have  I  thanked  you  in  my  heart.  I  was  just  expecting  my 
husband's  return  when  it  came;  and  was  busy  making  all  sorts  of 
preparations  for  him;  then,  after  he  came,  I  was  kept  in  a  sort  of 
worry  till  we  got  away  to  Bay  House,  and  in  the  last  six  weeks  I 
have  never  felt  to  have  one  minute's  leisure,  though  doing  nothing 
all  the  wliile.  Now  that  I  am  home,  I  hope  to  settle  down  into  a 
more  peaceful  and  reasonable  life. 

God  bless  you,  dear  Mrs.  Russell,  and  your  father  and  husband. 

Accept  the  little  New  Year's  gift,  I  send  you  as  a  token  of  grate- 
ful affection,  that  will  never  be  less. 

Yours, 

J.  Carlylk. 


208  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 


LETTER  85. 

Spring  of  1846,  she  and  a  small  pretty  party  were  at  Addiscombe 
Farm  for  several  weeks;  I,  busy  with  the  '  Cromwell '  second  edi- 
tion, was  obliged  to  keep  working  steadily  at  home;  but  duly,  on 
the  Saturday  till  Monday,  went  out.  There  could  be  no  prettier 
parties,  prettier  place  or  welcome,  had  these  been  all  the  requisites, 
but  iu  truth  Ihey  were  not.  Idleness,  it  must  be  owned,  did  sadly 
prevail — sadly,  and  even  tragically,  as  I  sometimes  thought,  on 
considering  our  hostess  and  chief  lady  there,  and  her  noble  talents, 
natural  tendencies  and  aspirations,  '  buried  under  gold  thrones,'  as 
Richter  says. — T.  C. 

Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Wednesday,  April  1846. 

My  dear  Jane,— The  spirit  moves  me  to  fire  off  at  you  a  small 
charitable  purchase  which  I  have  just  made.  Iu  the  way  of  sug- 
gestion, it  may  perhaps  yield  me  virtue's  own  reward! 

I  am  just  returned,  two  days  ago,  from  an  aristocratic  visit  of  a 
month's  duration,  with  the  mind  of  me  all  churned  into  froth,  out 
of  which,  alas,  no  butter  is  to  be  expected !  Yes,  '  gey  idle  o'  wark ' 
have  I  been  for  the  last  month,  '  clatching  about  the  country  on 
cuddy-asses  ' '  (figuratively  speaking).  Seeing  '  how  they  ack  '  in 
the  upper  places  does  not  give  me  any  discontent  with  the  place  I 
am  born  to,  quite  the  contrary.  I,  for  one  solitary  individual  (as 
Carlyle  says),  could  not  be  other  than  perfectly  miserable  in  idle- 
ness, world  without  end;  and  for  a  grand  lady,  it  seems  somehow 
impossible,  whatever  may  be  her  talents  and  'good  intentions,'  to 
be  other  than  idle  to  death.  Even  children  do  not  find  them  in 
occupation  and  duties.  A  beautiful  Lady  Anne,  who  was  at  Ad- 
discombe along  with  me  for  the  last  ten  days,  had  been  confined 
just  a  month  before;  and  her  new  baby  was  left  with  an  older  one 
in  the  care  of  a  doctor  and  nurses;  the  mother  seeming  to  be  as 
little  aware  as  all  the  rest  (myself  excepted)  that  any  mortal  could 
find  anything  to  object  to  in  such  free  and  easy  holding  of  one's 
children.  But,  as  your  ancestor  said  long  ago,  'they're  troubled 
that  hae  the  world,  and  troubled  that  want  it.'  On  the  whole,  how- 
ever, the  more  rational  sort  of  trouble,  that  which  brings  least  re- 
morse along  with  it,  seems  to  me  to  be  the  '  wanting  it.'  C.  is  gone 
to  ride;  a  little  '  ill-haired,'  this  morning. 

Ever  j'our  affectionate  sister, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

1  Ejaculation  of  my  mother's  after  reading  a  long  Roman  letter  from  brother 
John. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  209 


LETTER  86. 

After  Alverstoke,  February  1846,  I  had  rallied  to  a  second  edition 
of  Cromwell  (first  had  been  published  in  October  preceding),  en- 
teiprise  in  which,  many  new  letters  having  come  in,  there  lay  a 
great  deal  of  drudgery,  requiring  one's  most  exquisite  talent  as  of 
shoe  cobbling,  really,  that  kind  of  talent  carried  to  a  high  pitch, 
with  which  I  continued  busy  all  summer  and  farther.  She,  in  the 
meanwhile,  had  been  persuaded  into  Lancashire  again;  not  till  late 
in  August  could  I  join  her  at  Seaforth  for  a  little  while.  Whence 
into  Annandale  for  another  silent  six  weeks,  grown  all  to  grey  haze 
now,  except  that  I  did  get  rid  of  my  horse  '  Bobus '  there  on  fair 
terms,  and  had  no  want  of  mournful  reflections  (sad  as  death  at 
times  or  sadder)  on  my  own  and  the  world's  confusion  and  per- 
versities, and  the  tragedies  there  bred  for  oneself  and  others.  God's 
mercy,  God's  pardon,  we  all  of  us  might  pray  for,  if  we  could. — T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Russell,  ThornMll. 

Seaforth  House,  Liverpool:  July  2, 1846. 

Dearest  Mrs.  Russell, — Your  note  found  me  again  at  Seaforth, 
where  I  have  been  for  the  last  week.  The  great  heat  of  London  in 
the  beginning  of  June  had  made  me  quite  ill  again,  and  as  my  hus- 
band would  not  make  up  his  mind  yet  where  to  go,  or  when,  I 
made  up  my  own  mind  one  fine  morning,  and  started  off  hither, 
which  has  become  a  sort  of  house  of  refuge  for  me  of  late  years. 
My  husband  talked  of  following  me  in  a  week  or  two,  and  then 
taking  me  with  him  to  Scotland;  but  whether  I  shall  be  able  to 
bring  my  mind  to  that,  when  the  time  comes,  Heaven  knows.  The 
idea  of  Scotland  under  the  actual  circumstances  is  so  extremely 
desolate  for  me  that  I  should  need  to  get  a  little  more  strength  here, 
both  physical  and  moral,  before  it  were  possible  for  me  to  entertain 
it  practically.  I  fancy  it  were  easier  for  me  to  go  to  Haddington 
than  to  Dumfriesshire;  I  have  not  been  there  since  it  was  all 
changed,  and  myself  become  a  sort  of  stranger  in  it.  A  family  of 
good  women,'  who  were  dearly  attached  to  my  mother,  are  very 
desirous  that  I  should  pay  them  a  visit;  and  I  have  not  yet  said 
positively  that  I  will  not.     We  shall  see. 

Meanwhile,  Tuesday  is  my  birthday,  when  I  must  not  be  forgot- 
ten by  those  who  have  been  used  to  remember  it.  I  send  a  little 
parcel  for  Margaret,''  to  your  kind  care;  and  will  thank  you  to  give 

*  The  Misses  Donaldson. 

'  Margaret  Hiddlestone,  the  excellent  widow  servant. 


210  LETTERS  AND  MEMOEIALS  OP 

Mary '  five  shillings  for  me,  or  rather  lay  it  out  for  her  on  a  pair  of 
shoes,  or  tea,  or  what  you  think  fittest.  I  will  send  a  Post-Offioe 
order,  in  repayment,  the  first  day  I  go  to  Liverpool 

I  spent  part  of  the  day  there  yesterday,  and  saw  my  uncle,  who 
was  absent  on  my  first  visit.  He  looks  pretty  well,  and  is  very 
patient  under  the  feebleness  of  age.  My  cousins,  Helen  and  Mary, 
were  here  on  Wednesday,  and  promise  to  come  and  see  me  often, 
without  taking  it  ill  of  me  that  I  prefer  staying  here  in  this  quiet, 
roomy,  country  house,  to  being  cooped  up  in  Maryland  Street, 
which  is  worse  for  one's  health  than  Cheyne  Row.  Margaret  ^  goes 
to  Scotland  to  Walter,  on  Wednesday. 

My  kind  regards  to  your  husband  and  father.  I  could  not  help 
smiling  when  I  thought  of  your  father  receiving  his  newspaper  ^  all 
in  mourning  for — the  pope! 

Affectionately  yours  ever, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  87. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Seaforth:  Tuesday,  July  14,  1846. 

Oh!  my  dear  husband,  fortune  has  played  me  such  a  cruel  trick 
this  day!  and  I  do  not  even  feel  any  resentment  against  fortune, 
for  the  suffocating  misery  of  the  last  two  hours.  I  know  always, 
when  I  seem  to  you  most  exacting,  that  whatever  happens  to  me 
is  nothing  like  so  bad  as  I  deserve.     But  you  shall  hear  how  it  was. 

Not  a  line  from  you  on  my  birthday,  the  postmistress  averred! 
I  did  not  burst  out  crying,  did  not  faint — did  not  do  anything 
absurd,  so  far  as  I  know;  but  I  walked  back  again,  witliout  speak- 
ing a  word;  and  with  such  a  tumult  of  wretchedness  in  my  heart  as 
you,  who  know  me,  can  conceive.  And  then  I  shut  myself  in  my 
own  room  to  fancy  everything  that  was  most  tormenting.  Were 
you,  finally,  so  out  of  patience  with  me  that  you  had  resolved  to 
write  to  me  no  more  at  all  ?  Had  you  gone  to  Addiscombe,  and 
found  no  leisure  there  to  remember  my  existence?  Were  you  taken 
ill,  so  ill  that  you  could  not  write? 

1  Mary  Mills,  who  used  to  depend  on  chaiitable  Terapland,  weeding  the  gar- 
den, &c.  To  me  who  know  the  matter,  what  a  piercing  beauty  in  those  rigor- 
ously punctual  small  gifts;  sad  as  death,  and  grand,  too,  as  death  1 

*  '  Maggie  '  hodie. 

^  Th(!  (Trish-Gatholic)  Tablet,  which  came  gratis  to  me  (from  Lucas,  founder 
and  editor,  a  great '  admirer,'  &c.),  and  was  sent  regularly  till  his  death. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  211 

That  last  idea  made  me  mad  to  get  off  to  the  railway,  and  back 
to  London.     Oh,  mercy!  what  a  two  hours  I  had  of  it!' 

And  just  when  I  was  at  my  wits'  end,  I  heard  Julia  crying  out 
through  the  house:  'Mrs.  Carlyle,  Mrs.  Carlyle!  Are  you  there? 
Here  is  a  letter  for  you.' 

And  so  there  was  after  all !  The  postmistress  had  overlooked  it, 
and  had  given  it  to  Robert,  when  he  went  afterwards,  not  knowing 
that  we  had  been.  I  wonder  what  love-letter  was  ever  received 
with  such  thankfulness!  Oh,  my  dear!  I  am  not  fit  for  living  in 
the  world  with  this  organisation.  I  am  as  much  broken  to  pieces 
by  that  little  accident  as  if  I  had  come  through  an  attack  of  cholera 
or  typhus  fever.  I  cannot  even  steady  my  hand  to  write  decently. 
But  I  felt  an  irresistible  need  of  thanking  you,  by  return  of  post. 
Yes,  I  have  kissed  the  dear  little  card-case ;  and  now  I  will  lie  down 
awhile,  and  try  to  get  some  sleep.  At  least,  to  quiet  myself,  I  will 
try  to  believe — oh,  why  cannot  I  believe  it,  once  for  all — that,  with 
all  my  faults  and  follies,  I  am  '  dearer  to  you  than  any  earthly 
creature.'  I  will  be  better  for  Geraldine  here;  she  is  become  very 
quiet  and  nice;  and  as  affectionate  for  me  as  ever. 

Your  own 

J.  C. 
Two  Extracts. 

To  T.  Carlyle. 

Liverpool:  July  1846. 

July  15. — Jeannie  writes  to  me  from  Auchtertool  that  the  old 

minister  is  suddenly  dead,  soWalter^is  now  in  possession  of  the 

appointments  of  his  office.     There  is  something  rather  shocking  in 

one  person's  death  being  necessarily  a  piece  of  good  fortune  for 

another;  but  it  is  all  one  to  the  old  man  himself  now,  whether  they 

make  sad  faces  at  his  departure  or  gay  ones.     And  who  knows? 

'Perhaps  somebody  loved  that  pig,'  ^  and  will  give  him  a  genuine 

tear  or  two.      '  Poor  mortals  after  all ! '  what  a  mighty  problem  we 

make  about  oiu'  bits  of  lives;  and  death  as  surely  on  the  way  to 

cut  us  out  of  '  all  that '  at  least,  whatever  may  come  after.     Yes, 

nobody  out  of  Bedlam,  even  educated  in  Edinburgh,  can  contrive 

lo  doubt  of  death.     One  may  go  a  far  way  in  scepticism ;  may  get  to 

disbelieve  in  God  and  the  devil,  in  virtue  and  in  vice,  in  love,  in  one's 

own  soul ;  never  to  speak  of  time  and  space,  progress  of  the  species, 

>  Oh,  my  darling  little  woman  1  2  jjrs.  Carlyle's  imcle. 

*  Sentimental  cockney  (mythical)  that,  trotting  past,  saw  a  clean-washed 
pig  with  a  ribbon  round  its  neck,  and  exclaimed,  '  Somebody,'  &c.— T.  C. 


212  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

rights  of  women,  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number,  'isms,' 
world  without  end ;  everything,  in  short,  that  the  human  mind  ever 
believed  in,  or  '  believed  that  it  believed  in; '  only  not  in  death.  The 
most  outrageous  sceptic — even  I,  after  two  nights  without  sleep — 
cannot  go  ahead  against  that  fact — a  rather  cheering  one  on  the 
whole — that,  let  one's  earthly  difficulties  be  what  they  may,  death 
will  make  them  all  smooth  sooner  or  later,  and  either  one  shall 
have  a  trial  at  existing  again  under  new  conditions,  or  sleep  soundly 
through  all  eternity.  That  last  used  to  be  a  horrible  thought  for 
me,  but  it  is  not  so  any  longer.  I  am  weary,  weary  to  such  a  point 
of  moral  exhaustion,  that  any  anchorage  were  welcome,  even  the 
stillest,  coldest,  where  the  wicked  should  cease  from  troubling,  and 
the  weary  be  at  rest,  understanding  both  by  the  wicked  and  the 
weary  myself. 

Several  letters  lost,  and  four  dismal  weeks  of  my  darling's  history 
in  the  world  left  unrecorded.  Ill  spirits,  ill  health.  Oh  what  a 
world  for  her  too  noble  being,  and  for  some  others  not  so  noble! 
I  had  left  perhaps  a  week  before  the  date  of  this  letter,  sorrowfully 
enough,  but  not  guessing  at  all  how  ill  she  was.  She  had  gone  to 
Geraidiue's  quiet  place  in  Manchester,  rather  as  in  duty  bound  than 
with  much  hope  of  solacement  or  even  of  greater  quietude  there; 
both  of  which,  however,  she  found,  so  beautiful  was  Geraldine's 
affectionate  skill  with  her,  delicacy,  wise  silent  sympathy  and  un- 
wearied assiduity  (coming  by  surprise  too),  for  which  she  never 
forgot  Geraldine. — T.  C. 

Manchester:  Aug.  23, 1846. 

Geraldine  has  kept  to  her  purpose  of  not  leaving  me  a  single 
vacant  minute;  and  her  treatment,  I  believe,  has  been  the  most 
judicious  that  was  possible.  It  has  brought  back  something  like 
colour  into  my  face,  and  something  like  calm  into  my  heart,  but 
how  long  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  either  the  one  or  the  other  when 
left  to  my  own  management,  God  knows,  or  perhaps  another  than 
God  knows,  best. 

Nor  is  it  to  Geraldine  alone  that  I  feel  grateful ;  no  words  can 
express  the  kindness  of  her  brother.  To-night  I  shall  be  with  all 
my  family  that  remains,  but  that  thought  cannot  keep  the  tears  out 
of  my  eyes  in  quitting  these  strangers  who  have  treated  me  like  the 
dearest  of  sisters. 

Short  while  after  this  I  at  length  roused  myself  from  torpor  at 
Scotsbrig,  and  made,  still  very  slowly,  for  home.  Slowly,  and  with 
wide  circuit,  by  Dumfries,  Craigenpultock  (oh  my  emotions  there 
with  tenant  McQueen  in  the  room  which  had  been  our  bedroom). 
After  two  hours  at  Craigenputtock  with  McQueen,  who  had  now 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  213 

become  a  mighty  cattle-dealer,  famed  at  Norwich,  much  more  over 
all  these  moor  countries  for  his  grandeur  of  procedure  (and  who  in 
a  year  or  two  died  tragically,  poor  man!),  I  returned  to  Dumfries, 
took  coach  next  morning  for  Ayr,  impressive  interesting  drive  all 
the  way,  wandered  lonesome,  manifoldl}^  imagining,  all  afternoon, 
over  Ayr  and  environs  (Arran  from  the  sea  sand,  in  the  hazy  east 
wind  nightfall,  grand  and  grim.  Twa  Brigs,  &c.).  Ayr  was  hold- 
ing some  grand  market;  streets  and  inn  had  been  chokefull  during 
the  sunny  hours;  in  twilight  and  by  lamplight  become  permeable 
enough,  had  not  one's  heart  been  so  heavy.  I  stept  into  a  small  sta- 
tioner's shop,  and  at  his  counter  wrote  a  poor  letter  to  my  mother. 
Except  two  words  there,  and  a  twice-two  at  my  inn,  no  speech 
further  in  Ayr.  After  dark,  rail  to  x\.rdrossan  (bright  moon  on  the 
sandy  straggling  scene  there),  step  on  board  the  steamer  for  Belfast, 
intending  a  little  glimpse  of  Ireland  before  Liverpool,  Duffy  and 
other  young  Repealers  waiting  me  there,  all  on  the  ship.  At  Bel- 
fast next  morning,  breakfast,  stay  few  hours,  (cold  stony  town) 
take  coach  for  Drogheda  where  Duffy  and  Mitchell  will  await,  a 
post-office  letter  will  say  in  what  particular  house.  Coach  roof  in 
the  sunnj^  day  pleasant  enough ;  country  rough  and  ill-husbandried, 
but  all  new;  Portnadowu  Bridge  (of  the  great  massacre  of  1641); 
Duke  of  Manchester's  house;  a  merry  enough  young  Dublin  gen- 
tleman sitting  next  me  occasionally  talking  merry  sense.  Potatoes 
all  evidently  rotten ;  every  here  and  there  air  poisoned  with  their 
fateful  smell.  At  Drogheda,  dismount.  Postmaster  has  no  letter 
for  me;  angry  old  fool  reiterates  'None,  I  tell  you!'  and  Duffy, 
who  was  there  waiting  and  had  a  letter  waiting,  stayed  in  vain,  and 
did  not  return  till  afternoon  next  day;  w^ould  have  had  the  Drog- 
heda official  punished  (or  at  least  complained  of),  but  I  wouldn't. 
An  angry  old  fool,  misanthropic,  not  dishonest,  pleaded  L  Rolled 
into  Dublin  (to  Imi)erial  Hotel)  by  railway.  After  sunset,  wan- 
dered far  and  wide  about  the  broad  pavements,  listening  to  the 
wild  melodies  and  cries  of  Dul)lin  (on  a  Saturday  night),  went  tired 
to  bed,  and,  in  spite  of  riotous  sounds  audible,  slept  well  enough. 

In  Dublin  or  neighbourhood  I  continued  till  Thursday  or  Friday; 
saw  various  persons,  places,  and  things,  which  had  a  kind  of  inter- 
est to  me.  One  day  saw  Conciliation  Hall,  and  the  last  glimpse  of 
O'Connell,  chief  quack  of  the  then  world — first  time  I  had  ever 
heard  the  lying  scoundrel  speak — a  most  melancholy  scene  to  me 
altogether.  Conciliation  Hall  something  like  a  decent  Methodist 
chapel;  but  its  audience  very  sparse,  very  bad,  and  blackguard- 
looking;  brazen  faces  like  tapsters,  tavern  keepers,  miscellaneous 
hucksters  and  quarrelsome  male  or  female  nondescripts,  the  pre- 
vailing type;  not  one  that  you  would  have  called  a  gentleman,  much 
less  a  man  of  culture;  and  discontent  visible  among  them.  The 
speech — on  potato  rot  (most  serious  of  topics) — had  not  one  word  of 
sincerity,  not  to  speak  of  wisdom  in  it.  Every  sentence  seemed  to 
you  a  lie,  and  even  to  know  tliat  it  was  a  detected  lie.  I  was  stand- 
ing in  the  area  in  a  small  group  of  non-members  and  transitory 
people  quite  near  this  Demosthenes  of  blarney,  wlien  a  low  voice 
close  at  my  ear  wliis[)c'n'd  in  iiigli  accent:  '  Did  you  ever  hear  such 
damned  nonsense  iu  all  your  lifeV'     It  was  my  Belfast  Drogheda 


214  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

coach  companion,  and  I  thoroughly  agreed  with  him.  Beggarlj' 
O'Connell  made  out  of  Ireland  straightway,  and  never  returned — 
crept  under  the  Pope's  petticoat  '  to  die '  (and  be  '  saved '  from  what 
he  had  merited) — the  eminently  despicable  and  eminently  poisonous 
professor  of  blarney  that  he  was. 

I  saw  Carleton — Irish  novelist  (big  vulgar  kind  of  fellow,  not 
without  talent  and  plenty  of  humour);  certain  young  lawyers  who 
have  since  come  to  promotion,  but  were  not  of  moment;  certain 
young  writers  do.  do.  Dined  at  John  Mitcliell's  with  a  select  party 
one  evening,  and  ate  there  the  last  truly  good  potato  I  have  met 
with  in  the  world.  Mitchell's  wife,  especially  his  mother  (Pres- 
byterian parson's  widow  of  the  best  Scotch  tj'pe),  his  frugally  ele- 
gant small  house  and  table,  pleased  me  much,  as  did  the  man  him- 
self, a  fine  elastic-spirited  young  fellow  with  superior  natural  talent, 
whom  I  grieved  to  see  rushing  on  destruction,  palpable  by  '  attack 
of  windmills,'  but  on  whom  all  my  dissuasions  were  thrown  away. 
Both  Duffy  and  him  I  have  always  regarded  as  specimens  of  the 
best  kind  of  Irish  youth,  seduced  (like  thousands  of  others  in  their 
early  day)  into  courses  that  were  at  once  mad  and  ridiculous,  and 
which  nearly  ruined  the  life  of  both,  by  the  Big  Beggar-man,  who 
had  15,000Z.  a  year  {and  pro7^  pudorf  the  favour  of  English  minis- 
ters instead  of  the  pillory  from  them)  for  professing  blarney,  with 
such  and  still  worse  results.  One  of  my  most  impressive  days  was 
the  Sunday  (morrow  of  my  arrival)  out  at  Dundrum  waiting  for 
Duffy,  who  did  arrive  about  night.  Beautiful  prospect;  sea  with 
shore  and  islets;  beautiful  leafy  lanes;  mile  on  mile  in  total  silence, 
total  solitude.  I  only  met  two  persons  all  day:  one  promenading 
gently  on  horseback;  the  other  on  foot,  from  which  latter  I  prac- 
tically learnt  that  the  '  Hill  of  Howth '  was  unknown  by  that  name 
here,  and  known  only  as  the  'Hill  of  Hoath.'  My  last  day  there 
was  also  pretty;  wide  sweeping  drive  with  Duffy  and  Mitchell. 
Dargle,  stream'  and  banks,  Powerscourt,  gate  and  oaks,  &c.,  alto- 
gether fine;  finally  to  Bray  and  its  fine  hotel  to  dinner,  till  steamer 
time  came,  and  they  hospitably  put  me  on  board.  Adieu!  adieu! 
ye  well-wishing  souls. 

Next  morning  between  five  and  six  I  was  safe  seated  on  my  lug- 
gage before  the  door  of  Maryland  Street  (Liverpool),  smoking  a 
cigar  in  placid  silence  till  the  silent  home  should  awaken,  which  it 
somehow  did  unexpectedly  before  my  cigar  was  done. — T.  C. 


LETTER  88. 

This  and  the  next  four  letters  give  clear  account  of  a  sordid  form 
of  servile  chaos  in  this  house,  and  how  it  was  administered  by  one 
who  had  the  best  skill  I  ever  saw  in  such  matters.  Helen  Mitchell, 
an  innocent-hearted,  very  ingenious,  but  practically  altogether  fool- 
ish creature,  had,  by  matchless  skill  in  guiding  of  her  and  thorough 
knowledge  of  her  Scotch  character  and  ways,  been  trained  to  great 
perfection  of  service,  been  even  cured  from  a  wild  habit  of  occa- 
sional drinking,  and  tamed  into  living  with  us,  and  loyally  and 
faithfully  serving  us  for  many  years.     She  was  one  of  the  strangest 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  215 

creatures  I  ever  saw ;  hud  an  intellectual  insight  almost  as  of  genius, 
and  a  folly  and  simplicity  as  of  infancy:  her  suj'ings  and  ob.<erva- 
tious,  her  occasional  criticisms  on  men  and  things  translated  into 
the  dialect  of  upstairs,  were  by  far  the  most  authentic  table  wit  I 
have  anywhere  heard!  This  is  literally  true,  though  I  cannot  make 
it  conceivable;  the  '  beautifully  prismatic  '  medium  that  conveyed 
it  to  me,  which  was  unique  in  my  experience,  being  gone. 

The  history  of  Helen's  departure,  and  of  her  unspeakable  suc- 
cessor's arrival  are  clearlj-  given  in  these  following  letters,  and  to 
me  at  present  in  spite  of  their  mean  elements,  have  the  essential 
aspect  of  a  queenly  tragedy,  authentic  of  its  kind! — T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Stirling,  Hill  Street,  Edinbtirgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Saturday,  Sept.  1846. 

My  dear  Susan, — Do  you  remember  saying  to  me  when  you  were 
last  here,  '  should  you  ever  have  to  part  with  Helen,  and  be  in  want 
of  another  Scotch  servant,  tell  me,  and  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to 
help  you  to  one;  for  there  are  still  good  servants  to  be  got  in  Dun- 
dee'? It  is  years  since  you  said  this;  years  since  we  have  ex- 
changed words  with  one  another;  but  I  now  claim  your  assistance, 
with  as  full  assurance  as  if  you  had  offered  it  5'e8terday;  for  I 
judge  of  your  friendship  by  my  own;  and  as  time  and  absence 
have  made  no  change  in  my  feelings  towards  you,  I  fancy  that 
neither  has  any  change  been  made  in  yours  towards  me;  and  that 
you  are  still  as  ready  to  take  some  trouble  for  me  as  ever  you  were. 
If  likings  depended  on  locality  in  this  world,  poor  mortals  would 
have  a  sad  time  of  it;  seeing  how  those  who  like  one  another  are 
drifted  asunder,  and  kept  apart;  as  much,  often,  as  if  they  were 
dead  for  one  another;  but  where  a  true  regard  has  once  existed,  I 
cannot  believe  that  any  '  force  of  circumstances '  ever  destroys  it. 
And  so,  as  I  have  said,  I  calculate  on  your  being  still  the  same 
warmhearted  friend  I  ever  found  you,  when  our  stars  brought  us 
together — even  though  we  do  not  write  letters  to  state  the  fact. 

Alas!  of  late  years  my  letter-writing  propensities  have  been  sorely 
kept  down  by  the  continual  consciousness  of  being  grown  into  a 
sort  of  bore;  ever  ailing,  ever  depressed  in  spirits — the  conse- 
quence, I  suppose,  of  this  sort  of  nervous  ailment.  What  have  I 
to  tell  anyone  that  cares  for  me,  which  it  were  any  satisfaction  to 
hear?  The  only  thing  I  would  write  to  you,  which  were  not  better 
unwritten,  would  be  just  over  and  over  again,  '  My  dear  Susan,  I 
often  think  of  you,  and  have  the  same  affection  for  you  that  ever  I 
had;' — and  that,  I  flatter  myself,  you  will  always  take  for  granted. 

But,  for  the  practical  business  that  now  puts  me  on  writing  to 


216  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

you:  you  are  to  know  that  my  poor  little  Helen  has  not  relapsed 
into  drink  again,  nor  otherwise  forsaken  the  paths  of  virtue;  on 
the  contrary,  she  has  been  growing,  like  wine  and  a  few  other 
things,  always  the  better  by  keeping.  So  that  at  no  period  of  our 
relation  could  I  have  felt  more  regret  at  losing  her.  The  only  con- 
solation is,  that  she  will  find  her  advantage  in  the  change :  at  least 
one  tries  to  hope  so.  A  marriage,  you  think !  No,  something  even 
more  unlhought  of  has  turned  up  for  the  little  woman.  She  is 
going  to  be  made  a  sort  of  a  lady  of !  at  least,  so  the  matter  presents 
itself  to  her  lively  imagination !  A  brother  in  Dublin  has  been  ris- 
ing into  great  prosperity  as  a  manufacturer  of  coach-fringe;  thanks 
to  the  immense  consumption  of  that  article  on  the  railways!  He  is 
now,  by  his  own  showing,  a  regular  gentleman — so  far  as  money 
goes! — and  has  'two  hundred  girls  in  his  pay.'  He  looks  to  me  a 
foolish,  flustering  sort  of  incredible  creature;  but  Helen  feels  no 
doubt  as  to  the  solidity  of  his  basis.  Hitherto  he  has  taken  no 
charge  of  Helen  beyond  coming  to  see  her  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
when  his  business  called  him  to  London. 

LETTER  89. 

Helen  had  usefully  and  affectionately  stayed  with  us  eight  years 
or  more.  Latterly,  a  silly  snob  of  a  younger  brother,  setting  up, 
or  getting  forward,  in  some  small  business  at  Dublin,  came  once  or 
twice,  after  total  neglect  before,  opened  a  'career  of  ambition'  to 
the  poor  creature,  and  persuaded  her  over  to  Dublin  to  keep  house 
for  him.  It  was  well  foreseen  what  this  was  likely  to  end  in ;  but 
there  could  be  no  gainsajang.  Poor  Helen  went  (and  took  the 
consequence,  as  will  be  seen);  bright  breakfast-table  report  of  her 
strange  saj'ings  and  ways  (gentle,  genial  lambency  of  grave  humour 
and  intelligence — wittiest  of  wit  that  I  ever  heard  was  poor  in  com- 
parison!) ceased  altogether  then;  and  to  us,  also,  the  consequences 
for  the  time  were  variously  sad. 

To  Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries. 

Chelsea:  End  of  Dec.  1846. 
My  dear  Jane, — I  am  not  up  to  much  writing  yet;  my  three 
weeks'  confinement  to  bed,  and  the  violent  medicine  that  was  given 
me  to  put  down  my  cough,  have  reduced  me  to  the  consistency  of 
a  jelly.  But  I  will  not  write  a  long  letter,  but  tell  you  now  in  a 
short  one  how  glad  I  was  of  the  little  token  of  your  kind  remem- 
brance, which  reached  me  the  other  night  just  when  I  was  trying 
to  sit  up  for  the  first  time.  Your  letter  made  me  cry;  which  is  al- 
ways a  good  sign  of  a  letter,  don't  you  think?    But,  my  dear,  what 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  217 

do  you  mean  by  'forgiving'  you?  What  unkind  thing  did  you 
ever  do  to  me?  I  have  not  the  faintest  recollection  of  your  ever 
doing  unkindly  by  me  in  your  life!  At  Craigenputtock  -we  used  to 
have  little  squabbles  about  the  servants  and  '  all  that  sort  of  thing'; 
but  in  these  it  strikes  me  I  was  alvrays  quite  as  much  an  aggressor 
as  a  sufferer,  and  on  the  whole,  considering  the  amount  of  human 
imperfection  goiug,  and  the  complexities  we  had  to  work  in  at 
Craigenputtock,  I  think  we  got  through  that  business  '  as  well  as 
could  be  expected';  and  certainly  you  did  not  get  through  it  worst. 
Believe  me,  my  dear  sister,  I  have  none  but  kind  feelings  towards 
you  and  kind  recollections  of  you.  Although  we  are  widely  parted 
now,  and  although  much  has  changed  incredibly  since  those  days 
at  the  Hill  which  you  remind  me  of,  the  regard  I  conceived  for  you 
then  has  gone  on  the  same,  though  so  seldom  giving  any  sign  of 
itself. 

We  are  still  in  a  fearful  puddle  here.  Helen's  loss  has  been  a 
serious  affair.  The  temporary  servant  we  have  drives  Carlyle  and 
my  cousin  to  despair,  and  I  am  pretty  near  despair  from  seeing 
them  so  put  about  while  myself  cannot  go  to  the  rescue,  as  I  could 
80  well  have  done  but  for  this  dreadful  cold.  I  have  no  decided 
prospect  yet  of  anything  better.  I  put  an  advertisement  in  the 
'  Times '  newspaper  but  the  only  applicant  as  yet  resulting  from  it 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  I  will  inclose  you  Dr.  Christie's  brief 
account  of  her.  There  was  a  Highland  woman  offered  the  other 
day,  whom  I  mean  to  inquire  further  into,  though  she  rather 
shocked  me  by  having  forgotten  what  part  of  the  Highlands  she 
came  from!  I  will  write  when  I  am  stronger  and  tell  you  what 
comes  of  us.  It  is  a  great  worry  my  cousin  being  here  when  every- 
thing is  so  wretchedly  uncomfortable,  although  I  suppose  there  was 
absolute  need  of  her  while  I  was  confined  to  bed. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

J.  C. 

Kind  regards  to  James. 

LETTER  90. 

This  is  the  catastrophe  or  utter  down-break  of  Pessima,  whom  I 
still  remember  as  a  handsome,  cultivated-looking  Edinburgh  girl, 
speaking  Scotch  like  an  Edinburgh  gentlewoman,  and  exhibiting  a 
character  and  style  of  procedure  detestable  beyond  any  previous 
specimen  I  had  ever  known  of.  Slie  had  been  carefully  trained  by 
pious  Edinburgh  ladies;  was  filled  with  the  consciousness  of  free 
grace;  and,  I  believe,  would  have  got  more  real  education,  as  I  told 
her,  if  she  had  been  left  to  puddle  through  the  gutters  with  Ik  r 

I.-IO 


218  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

neglected  fellow  brats,  by  whom  she  would  have  been  trampled  out 
of  the  world  had  she  behaved  no  better  thau  now.  Indisputably 
the  worst  specimen  of  Scotch  character  I  have  ever  seen  produced. 
My  brief  request  to  her  was  to  disappear  straightway,  and  in  no 
region  of  God's  universe,  if  she  could  avoid  it,  ever  to  let  me  behold 
her  again.  The  poor  devil,  I  believe,  died  in  a  year  or  two,  and  did 
not  come  upon  the  streets  as  predicted  of  her. 

Betty,  the  old  Haddington  servant,  who  had  been  concerned  in 
the  sending  or  sanctioning  of  this  wretched  creature,  was  deeply 
grieved  and  disappointed.  The  charm  for  Betty  had  been  the  per- 
fect Free  Kirk  orthodoxy  and  free  grace  professions  of  thisPessima, 
who,  I  think,  reported  at  home  that  she  had  been  obliged  to  leave 
us,  having  actually  noticed  once  or  of tener  that  we  '  received '  on 
Sabbath. 

The  cousin  mentioned  here  is  good  Helen  Welsh,  of  Liverpool, 
Maggie's  eldest  sister,  whose  amiable  behaviour  and  silent  helpful- 
ness in  this  sordid  crisis  I  still  well  remember.  The  improvised 
old  woman,  I  remember,  got  the  name  of  slowcoach  between  us, 
and  continued  for  perhaps  three  weeks  or  more.  She  was  a  very 
white  aproned,  cleanly  old  creature,  and  I  once  noticed  her  sitting 
at  some  meal  in  her  kitchen,  with  a  neatness  of  table-cloth  and 
other  apparatus,  and  a  serene  dignity  of  composure  in  her  poor  old 
self,  that  were  fairly  pathetic  to  me.  For  the  rest,  never  did  I  see 
so  sordid  a  domestic  crisis  appointed  for  such  a  mistress,  in  this 
world!  But  it  had  its  kind  of  compensation  too;  and  is  now  more 
noble  and  queeulike  to  me  than  all  the  money  in  the  bank  could 
have  made  it. 

The  little  creature  called  Anne  did  prove  a  good  cockney  parallel 
of  Scotch  Helen  Mitchell,  and  served  us  well  (with  only  one  fol- 
lower, our  butcher's  lad,  who  came  silently,  and  sat  two  hours 
once  a  week):  follower  and  she  were  then  wedded,  went  to  Jersey, 
where  we  heard  of  their  doing  well  in  the  butcher's  business;  but, 
alas,  before  long,  of  poor  Anne's  falling  ill  and  dying. 

Before  Anne's  quitting  us.  dottle  Helen  had  finished  her  ladj'- 
hood  at  Dublin,  quarrelled  with  her  fool  of  a  brother  there,  and 
retired  to  Kirkcaldy,  signifying  the  warmest  wish  to  return  hither. 
She  did  return,  poor  wretch,  but  was  at  once  discerned  (not  by  me) 
to  be  internally  in  a  state  of  chaos;  and  within  three  months,  for 
open  and  incurable  drunkenness,  had  to  be  dismissed.  Endless 
pains  were  taken  about  her;  new  place  provided  (decent  old  widow 
in  straitened  circumstances,  content  to  accept  so  much  merit  in  a 
servant  and  tried  to  cure  the  drunkenness).  But  nothing  whatever 
could  avail;  the  wretched  Helen  went  down  and  down  in  this  Lon- 
don element,  and  at  last  was  sent  home  to  her  kindred  in  Kirkcaldy 
to  die.  'Poor  bit  dottle,'  what  a  history  and  tragedy  in  small! — 
T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Stirling,  Hill  Street,  Edinburgh. 

^  5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea :  Dec.  29,  1846. 

My  dearest  Susan, — I  wonder  if  you  are  out  of  anxiety  about 
your  sister?    I  am  almost  afraid  to  begin  telling  you  of  my  own 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  219 

troubles,  without  being  first  satisfied  of  that.  But  it  seems  un- 
kind, after  all  your  exertions  to  provide  me  with  a  servant,  not  to 
tell  you  of  the  catastrophe  of  the  one  sent  me  by  Betty!  It  is  only 
now,  for  the  first  time,  that  I  am  in  a  condition  to  give  you  the 
disgusting  history ;  for  I  was  taken  ill  in  the  second  week  of  her ; 
have  been  three  weeks  confined  to  bed,  and  a  week  more  to  my 
bedroom  fireside;  and  am  just  emerged  into  the  library,  between 
which  and  my  bedroom  I  look  forward  with  '  a  certain  resignation ' 
to  passing  all  the  rest  of  the  winter. 

You  would  see  by  my  last  letter  that  I  was  dubious  as  to  the  re- 
sult of  that  Edinburgh  damsel.  I  tried  to  hope  the  best  and  culti- 
vate patience  and  cheerfulness ;  but  your  notion  that  she  had  been 
too  much  petted  for  this  situation  gained  on  me  every  day.  She 
showed  no  disposition  to  learn  her  work;  in  fact,  she  became  every 
day  more  sulky  and  slovenly ;  and,  on  the  first  washing-day,  she 
burst  out  on  me  with  a  sort  of  hysterical  insolence;  declared  she 
'had  never  been  told  by  anybody  she  was  to  wash; '  that  '  no  one 
woman  living  could  do  my  work,'  and  when  I  told  her  the  answer 
to  that  was,  that  it  had  been  done  by  '  one  woman '  for  eleven 
years,  without  the  slightest  complaint,  she  said,  almost  screaming, 
'  Oh  yes,  there  are  women  that  like  to  make  slaves  of  themselves, 
and  her  you  had  was  of  that  sort,  but  I  will  never  slave  myself  for 
anybody's  pleasure.'  I  asked  her  if  she  would  be  so  good  as  state 
calmly  what  she  meant  to  do.  To  '  go,  to  be  sure.'  '  Did  she  pro- 
pose repaying  me  her  expenses,  then?  '  'No,  she  had  no  money.' 
I  thought  the  only  way  to  treat  such  a  creature,  who  seemed  to 
have  no  sense  of  obligation,  or  anything  else  but  her  '  own  sweet 
will,'  was  to  let  her  depart  in  peace,  and  remain  a  loser  of  only  two 
guineas,  and  not  of  my  temper  as  well.  So  I  told  her,  well,  she 
might  go  at  the  end  of  her  month,  only  to  make  no  noise,  if  pos- 
sible, for  the  remaining  three  weeks.  But  even  this  was  too  much 
to  ask.  In  the  second  week  of  her,  I  was  laid  up  in  bed  with  one 
of  my  serious  colds,  caught  by  doing  the  most  of  her  work  my- 
self, and  exposing  myself  after  quite  an  unusual  fashion;  once 
there,  I  lay,  with  a  doctor  attending  me  daily;  and  dosing  me 
Willi  tartar- emetic  and  opium,  till  I  had  hardly  any  sense  left, 
and  was  too  weak  to  cough  ;  while  Carlyle  and  my  cousin 
had  to  shift  for  themselves  and  me  too,  with  an  occasional  help- 
ing hand  from  our  postman's  wife.  Isabella,  meanwlule,  cry- 
ing about  her  'hands  getting  all  spoilt  witli  dirty  work'  ;  and 
doing  nothing  she  could  help  ;    till  on  Saturday   night,   just  a 


220  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

fortnight  after  she  had  come,  she  sent  me  word  in  my  bed, 
that  if  I  did  not  let  her  go  next  day  (Sunday  !)  she  '  would 
talie  fits,  and  be  laid  up  in  my  house  a  whole  year,  as  hap- 
pened  to  her  ouce  before  in  a  place  where  the  work  was  too 
hard.'  Carlyle  told  her  to  go  in  the  devil's  name;  and  a  little 
more  of  his  mind  he  told  her;  which  was  a  satisfaction  for  me 
to  have  said  in  his  emphatic  way,  since  I  was  unable  to  rebuke  her 
myself!  But  you  may  fancy  the  mischief  all  this  did  to  a  poor 
woman  taking  tartar-emetic  and  opium  every  two  hours!  Wlien 
my  doctor  came  next  day,  he  said  it  '  was  well  he  had  not  been 
here  at  the  time,  as  he  would  have  certainly  dashed  her  brains  out! ' 
By  that  time,  however,  she  was  gone;  actually  rushed  off  after 
breakfast  on  Sunday! — (so  much  for  'free  grace,'  of  which  she  pro- 
fessed to  be  full!) — smartly  dressed,  and  very  happy,  they  told  me — 
off  to  the  'seven  cousins,'  with  whom  I  had,  more  good-naturedly 
than  wisely,  permitted  her,  at  her  own  request,  to  pass  all  the  pre- 
vious Sunday;  leaving  me  very  ill  in  bed,  and  no  servant  in  the 
house!  The  day  after,  she  brought  an  omnibus  and  a  female  friend 
to  tiie  door,  in  the  finest  spirits,  to  take  away  her  box;  and  from 
that  day  to  this  I  have  heard  no  more  of  her!  But  if  such  a  char- 
acter as  she  exhibited  here  does  not  lead  her  to  the  streets  some 
day,  I  shall  be  greatly  surprised.  Of  course  her  respectable  appear- 
ance, backed  out  by  the  seven  cousins,  will  have  got  her  another 
place  ere  now;  where,  if  men-servants  be  kept,  she  may  exert  her- 
self. My  doctor  said  he  could  tell  by  her  looks,  the  first  day  she 
opened  the  door  to  him,  that  she  had  then,  or  had  quite  lately  had, 
the  green  sickness,  and  that  I  was  well  rid  of  her. 

And  now  I  might  write  a  few  sheets  more,  of  the  old  half-dead 
cook,  whom  a  lady  who  was  going  to  part  with  her  at  any  rate,  on 
account  of  her  'shocking  bad  temper,'  obligingly  made  over  to  us 
as  '  a  temporary, '  at  an  hour's  notice.  Such  as  she  is,  she  has  been 
an  improvement  on  Isabella,  for  she  does  her  best.  But  oh,  what  a 
puddle  it  has  been!  and  rushing  down  of  an  orderly  house  to  chaos! 
Another  fortnight  of  it  would  have  sent  my  not  too  patient  husband 
raving  mad !  Since  I  got  out  of  bed  I  have  been  seeing  all  sorts  of 
horrid-looking  females  'inquiring  after  the  place;'  and  two  days  ago 
finally  settled  with  one  not  horrid-looking,  but  a  cheery  little  '  but- 
ton '  of  a  creature,  with  a  sort  of  cockney  resemblance  to  Helen;  she 
has  been  nearly  three  years  in  a  similar  situation  close  by,  which 
she  has  only  left  in  consequence  of  the  mistress  having  died,  and  the 
master  going  into  lodgings.     He  gave  her  an  excellent  character  to 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  221 

my  cousin;  especially  for  quiet  habits.  '  She  had  only  one  lover 
■who  came  to  see  her,  and  one  female  friend  (happy  little  woman!), 
both  highly  respectable,  and  not  too  troublesome.'  She  is  to  come 
on  the  last  night  of  the  year. 

This  will  reach  you  on  the  first  day  of  the  new  year;  and  I  put 
many  good  wishes  and  a  kiss  into  it. 
Do  write  to  me  how  your  sister  is. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jake  Caklyle. 

LETTER  91. 

To  Miss  Helen  Welsh,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  Jan.  20, 1847. 

Dearest  Helen, — One  hears  much  fine  talk  in  this  hypocritical  age 
about  seeking  and  even  finding  one's  own  happiness  in  '  the  happi- 
ness of  others ;'  but  I  frankly  confess  to  you  that  I,  as  one  solitary 
individual,  have  never  been  able  to  confound  the  two  things,  even 
in  imagination,  so  as  not  to  be  capable  of  clearly  distinguishing  the 
difference;  and  if  every  one  would  endeavour,  as  I  do,  to  speak 
without  cant,  I  believe  there  would  be  a  pretty  general  admission 
on  the  part  of  sinful  humanity  that  to  eat  a  comfortable  beef -steak 
when  one  ia  hungry  yields  a  satisfaction  of  a  much  more  positive 
character  than  seeing  one's  neighbour  eat  it!  For  the  fact  is,  happi- 
ness is  but  a  low  thing,  and  there  is  a  confusion  of  ideas  in  running 
after  it  on  stilts.  When  Sir  Philip  Sidney  took  the  water  from  his 
own  parched  lips  to  give  it  to  the  dying  soldier,  I  could  take  my 
Bible  oath  that  it  was  not  happiness  he  felt;  and  that  he  would 
never  have  done  that  much  admired  action  if  his  only  compensation 
had  been  the  pleasure  resulting  to  him  from  seeing  the  dying  soldier 
drink  the  water;  he  did  it  because  he  could  not  help  himself;  be- 
cause the  sense  of  duty,  of  self-denial,  was  stronger  in  him  at  the 
moment  than  low  human  appetite;  because  the  soul  in  him  said,  do 
it;  not  because  utilitarian  philosophy  suggested  that  he  would  find 
his  advantage  in  doing  it,  nor  because  Socinian  dilettanteism  re- 
quired of  liim  a  beautiful  action! 

Well,  but  if  these  moral  reflections  are  not  a  preamble  to  some- 
thing more  relevant,  I  find  such  a  commencement  of  a  letter  '  what 
shall  I  say?  strange,  upon  my  honour!'  Do  you  so?  m}'  sweet 
little  cousin — be  thankful,  then!  wc  live  in  a  world  of  common- 
place; a  strange  letter,  a  strange  woman,  so  far  from  being  taken 


222  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

sharply  to  task,  should  be  accepted  graciously,  as  a  sort  of  refresh- 
ing novelty. 

But  if  I  cannot  show  you  that  my  moral  reflections  lead  to  some- 
thing, I  can  show  you  that  something  led  to  them.  I  had  been 
looking  over  the  last  budget  of  autographs  that  I  had  got  together 
for  you.  Such  distinguished  names!  'To  be  sure,'  I  said  to  my- 
self, '  these  will  make  her  fortune  in  autographs.'  And  then  I  felt 
a  certain  self-complacency,  a  certain  presentiment  of  your  satisfac- 
tion in  seeing  your  collection  swelling  into  something  really  wortli 
while;  and  having  the  pen  in  my  hand  to  write  to  you,  I  was  on  the 
point  of  putting  on  the  paper  some  such  fadaise  as  this:  'It  was  a 
capital  thought  in  me,  dearest  Helen,  the  making  of  this  collection 
for  you.  My  own  pleasure  in  sending  you  the  autographs  being 
greater,  I  am  sure,  than  any  you  can  feel  in  receiving  them.'  But 
the  sentence  having  reached  a  full  stop,  in  my  head,  my  better 
judgment  said,  'Bah!  Beware  of  the  Socinian  jargon,  ma  chlre, 
there  is  always  "  a  do  at  the  bottom  of  it!"  '  and  so  my  pen  dashed 
off,  of  itself  as  it  were,  into  a  reactionary  tirade  against  '  the  welfare- 
of-others'  principle. 

I  have  been  long  plaguing  Carlyle  to  give  me,  for  you,  one  of  the 
letters  of  Varnhagen  von  Ense;  for  besides  being  the  autograph  of 
a  distinguished  author  and  diplomatist  and  husband  of  Rahel,  you 
will  find  it  curious  for  its  perfect  beauty.  I  never  saw  such  writing; 
and  in  whatever  haste,  in  sickness  or  in  health,  it  is  always  the 
same. 

Carlyle  was  very  grumpy  about  parting  with  one  of  his  letters; 
but,  having  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  for  him  the  other  day  in 
seeking  out  some  notes  he  wanted  from  his  trunk  of  old  papers,  he 
presented  me  with  this  one  as  a  reward;  and  also,  I  suppose,  as  an 
encouragement  to  future  exertions  of  like  utility. 

Besides  Varnhagen  von  Ense,  you  have  here  Goethe,  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  Rogers,  Sir  R.  Peel,  a  whole  note  from  Harriet  Martineau 
(before  our  friendship),  Charles  Buller,  Count  d'Orsay,  Milman,  a 
very  characteristic  note  from  Mazzini,  Lord  Stanley,  Mrs.  Austin, 
Lockhart,  Thackeray  (alias  Titmarsh),  Allan  Cunningham. 

Tell  Jeaunie  that  when  I  informed  Mazzini  yesterday  that  Geral- 
dine  was  to  be  here  on  Monday,  he  first  stared,  then  said  'Well! 
after  then  I  come  for  ten  minutes  only! '  and  then,  looking  into  the 
fire,  gave  a  long,  clear  whistle!  Jeanniecan  figure  the  sort  of  mood 
in  which  alone  Mazzini  could  dream  of  whistling! 

But  alas!  I  must  go  and  clean  the  lamp,  a  much  less  agreeable 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  223 

occupation  than  writing  to  you,  ray  dear.  But  such  consequences 
of  the  fall  of  Adam  will  always  exist.  Nothing  will  go  on  any  time 
without  human  labour. 

Ever  your  affectionate  cousin, 

J.  Cablylb. 

LETTER  92. 
To  Miss  Helen  Welsh,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  July  15, 1847. 

My  dearest  Helen, — I  would  have  written  yesterday,  if  I  could 
have  done  anything  on  earth  but  cry.  I  suppose  'the  fact  is,'  as 
Carlyle  says,  'that  I  am  very  unwell.'  lu  a  general  way  I  can 
keep  from  crying  at  all  rates.  But  this  heat  is  most  disorganising 
and  demoralising.  And  so  I  fell  a- crying  in  the  morning  over  my 
gifts,  and  could  not  stop  myself  again. 

Carlyle  had  prepared  a  cameo-brooch  for  me,  and  I  cannot  tell 
how  it  is,  but  his  gifts  always  distress  me  more  than  a  scold  from 
him  would  do.  Then  the  postman  handed  in  j^our  letter  and  little 
box,  and  that  brought  all  sorts  of  reminiscences  of  home  and  of 
Templand  along  with  it;  a  beautiful  little  thing  as  ever  I  beheld! 
but  too  beautiful  and  too  youthful  for  the  individual  intended  to 
wear  it.  A  hat-box  from  poor  Bolte  completed  the  overthrow  of 
my  sensibility:  it  contained  an  immense  bouquet  of  the  loveliest 
flowers,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  stuck — her  picture!  in  water- 
colours,  and  gilt-framed,  and  a  note.  I  shall  send  you  the  note, 
that  you  may  see  Bolte  in  her  best  phase.  People  wonder  always 
why  I  let  myself  be  bored  with  that  woman,  but,  with  all  her  want 
of  tact  in  the  everyday  intercourse  of  life,  she  manifests  a  senti- 
ment on  occasions  so  delicate  and  deep,  that  I  should  be  a  brute  not 
to  be  touched  by  it. 

Whose  is  the  hair  in  the  little  basket?  it  looks  all  one  shade. 

Thank  you,  dearest,  and  the  others  concerned  in  that  little 
realised  ideal  of  cousinly  remembrance.  I  have  attached  it  to  my 
bracelet,  but  it  seems  almost  a  pity  to  wear  it  there.  I  was  think- 
ing whether  I  ought  not  to  have  my  nose  pierced  and  suspend  it 
from  that. 

Perhaps  I  shall  see  you  this  summer  after  all.  I  really  am 
suffering  dreadfully  from  the  heat;  quite  as  ill,  in  a  different  way, 
as  I  was  in  winter  from  the  cold. 

I  cannot  sleep  or  eat,  can  hardly  sit  upright,  and  am  in  a  con- 
tinual high  fever,  obliged  to  keep  wet  cloths  on  my  head  all  day 


224  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

long.  In  these  astonishing  circumstances  Carlyle  declares  I  abso- 
lutely must  go  away,  and  best  to  Haddington.  He  will  take  me 
there  and  leave  me ;  so  if  I  go  to  Haddington  I  shall  surely  go  to 
Auchtertool;  but  I  am  not  there  yet.  I  am  to  write  to  Miss 
Donaldson  to-day,  to  inquire  if  her  house  be  empty;  if  the  London 
family  are  there  I  shall  consider  that  objection  final. 

I  hope,  if  I  go,  I  may  get  off  before  Geraldine  returns,  for  I  am 
not  up  to  any  visitor  just  now,  not  even  to  an  angel  awares. 

Kind  love  to  all.  I  have  that  letter  to  Miss  Donaldson  to  write 
and  am  already  worn  out. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  93. 

October-November,  1846. — We  went  for  a  week  to  the  Grange — 
old  Rogers,  &c.  My  poor  Jane's  health  very  feeble.  Beginning 
of  December,  bothered  by  various  things,  change  of  servants,  fool- 
ish Helen  off  to  Dublin  to  a  foolish  brother  there,  and  to  ruin,  as  it 
proved.  My  dear  little  woman  fell  quite  ill— Dr.  Cliristie  attend- 
ing— and  for  three  weeks  was  helpless,  ofteuest  in  bed,  amid  these 
household  irritations,  now  painful  to  remember.  Helen  Welsh 
luckily  was  here  on  visit  from  Liverpool;  before  New  Year's  Day 
the  hurly-burly,  bad  servants.  Free  Kirk  Edinburgh  ones,  slow 
coacli  &c.,  swept  away,  and  a  new  good  one  got;  and  my  darling, 
once  more  victorious,  seemed  to  be  herself  again. 

End  of  January,  part  of  February  1847,  at  Bay  House,  Alverstoke; 
there  again,  however,  she  had  a  miserably  bad  sore  throat,  sad  to 
read  of  in  her  letters.  I  idle,  lying  painfully  fallow  all  this  time, 
brother  John  busy  with  his  Dante. 

August  1847  we  go  for  Matlock,  stay  about  a  fortnight.  W.  E. 
Forster  over  from  Rawdon  (Bradford  neighbourhood),  loyal  cheery 
ex-Quaker  then.  Radical  politician  now,  ran  over  to  join  us,  and, 
pressingly  hospitable,  took  us  home  with  him.  Charming  drive  to 
ShefHeld  from  the  Peak  country.  Stay  at  Rawdon  for  another 
fortnight;  there  part;  I  for  Scotsbrig,  my  Jeannie  for  a  trial  day 
or  two  at  Barnsley  (brother  of  Mrs.  Paulet's  there),  and  so  home 
to  Chelsea.— T.  C. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Saturday,  Sept.  11, 1847. 
Here  I  am,  then,  safe  and  sound!  rather  tired,  and  as  yellow  as 
saffron  with  yesterday's  journey;  but  that  is  all.  I  left  Barnsley 
at  one,  and  got  home  at  eleven,  rather  low  when  I  stopped  at  my 
own  door  all  alone;  but  Anne  received  me  with  a  little  outburst  of 
affection,  as  cheering  as  it  was  unexpected.  What  you  will  consider 
more  to  tlie  purpose,   she  had  everything  in  the  nicest  possible 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  225 

order;  seemed  really  to  have  exerted  herself  to  the  uttermost  ia 
divining  and  execuiing  my  wishes.  A  better-cleaned  house  I 
never  set  my  foot  in:  and  even  her  own  little  person  had  bloomed 
out  into  new  clothes  for  the  occasion.  All  the  carpets  have  been 
not  only  up,  and  most  effectually  cleaned,  and  nailed  down  again, 
as  nobody  but  myself  ever  succeeded  in  nailing  them  before,  but 
she  has  been  at  the  unbargained-for  pains  to  darn  them,  wherever 
they  needed  it.  Nay,  she  has  actually  learned  to  stand  on  steps, 
and  dusted  every  book  on  the  shelves!  Mrs.  Piper  has  been  at 
work  like  a  very  Brownie.  Postie '  and  she  came  at  four  o'clock 
one  morning,  and  washed  up  all  the  blankets  and  counterpanes. 
And  then  the  little  post-woman  herself  fell  upon  the  chair  and 
table-covers,  and,  having  washed  them  quite  beautifully,  nailed 
them  all  on  again;  so  that  the  whole  house  looks  as  bright  as  a  new 
pin.  Postie  had  also  helped  to  beat  the  carpets,  considering  that 
Eaves  ^  was  rather  slimming  them ;  but  he  charged  Anne  to  keep 
this,  and  indeed  all  his  doings,  a  secret  from  me.  To  fall  to  work 
messing  and  painting  inside,  now  that  everything  is  so  well 
cleaned,  and  so  late  in  the  year,  would,  I  think,  be  'very  absurd.'^ 
When  the  parlour  is  new-papered  and  painted,  it  should  be  done 
properly,  and  proper  painting  takes  a  prodigious  time;  but  I  will 
see  somebody  to-morrow,  to  speak  at  least  concerning  the  outside. 

I  have  not  seen  John  yet,  but  he  will  come,  I  suppose,  after  his 
proofs  are  corrected.  Nobody  else  knows  of  my  return,  and  I 
shall  keep  it  'a  secret  to  please  him,'*  till  I  feel  a  need  of  company, 
which  I  fancy  will  not  be  for  some  weeks  to  come.  Meanwhile  I 
have  plenty  to  employ  me,  in  siding '  drawers  and  locked  places, 
which  I  left  in  the  disgracefullest  confusion;  and  in  re-habilitating 
the  clothes-department,  which  has  been  wonderfully  reduced  and 
dilapidated  by  these  weeks  of  travel,  to  say  nothing  of  plenty  of 
letters  lying  on  my  conscience.  Did  you  find  at  Scotsbrig  a  letter 
from  Anthony  Sterling  announcing  his  father's  death?  Anne  says 
he  (Antliony)  called  here  last  Saturday  to  ask  the  address;  and 
she  gave  him  the  Kawdon  one.  The  poor  old  man  had  been  quite 
in-sensible  for  a  week  before  his  death;  and  the  week  before  that, 
he  had  insisted  on  having  himself  brought  in  the  carriage  to  this 

»  Our  excellent,  punctual  and  oblifring  postman,  for  above  twenty  years. 
'  The  ostler,  turned  out  (seven  or  eight  years  after)  to  be  a  very  great  scamp. 
'  Brother  John's  phrase. 

*  '  Ou  que  manger  un  hareng?    C'est  un  secret  pour  lui  plaire? ' 

•  Lancashire  for  '  sorting.' 

10* 


236  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

door,  though  even  then  he  was  speechless.  Anne  said  it  was  the 
saddest  thing  she  ever  saw;  he  waved  to  her  to  come  to  him,  and 
made  signs  as  if  he  were  leaving  a  message  for  me,  pointed  repeat- 
edly to  his  lips,  and  then  to  the  house,  and  then  shook  his  head 
witli  tears  running  down.  How  often  I  have  made  a  jest  of  that 
old  man's  affection  for  me,  and  now  it  looks  one  of  the  most  valu- 
able affections  I  ever  possessed,  for  he  clung  to  it  till  his  last 
moment  of  consciousness.  His  nm'se,  who  came  with  him,  told 
Anne  she  knew  I  was  not  at  home,  but  it  was  perfectly  impossible 
to  hinder  his  coming.  Anthony,  Anne  says,  seemed  'dreadfully 
cut  up; '  he  '  could  hardly  speak  to  her,  for  the  tears  in  his  throat.' 
Your  letter  was  lying  for  me  last  night  when  I  came  in,  and 
gave  me  somehow  the  feeling  of  a  letter  written  out  of  Hades.  I 
hope  I  shall  get  another  soon.  I  hardly  supposed  your  Manchester 
worshippers,  and  least  of  all  Geraldine,  would  let  you  off  on  the 
Tuesday.  As  to  me,  I  could  not  well  have  got  home  on  the 
Wednesday,  even  if  much  set  on  it,  which  I  was  not.  On  Tues- 
day, Nodes  1  and  his  wife  took  me  through  two  Immense  factories, 
and  a  long  drive  besides  in  a  phaeton.  On  the  way  home  I  was 
seized  with  one  of  my  very  worst  fainting  headaches,  and  had  to  be 
carried  from  the  carriage  to  bed,  where  I  lay  in  what  they  took 
for  a  last  agony,  till  midnight.  Nothing  could  be  kinder  than  Mrs. 
Newton  was,  but  kindness  could  do  nothing  till  the  time  came. 
Next  day  I  got  up  to  breakfast,  but  too  brashed  to  dream  of  going 
off  to  London ;  so  I  agreed  to  stay  till  Friday.  They  would  fain 
have  had  it  Monday,  but  I  could  not  be  so  silly  as  to  change  my 
day  twice.  My  visit  was  a  highly  successful  one,  except  for  that 
headache,  which  might  have  happened  anywhere.  The  children 
are  beautiful,  lovable  children,  brought  up  as  children  used  to  be 
in  my  time,  and  no  trouble  to  anybody.  Mrs.  Newton  herself  grows 
more  attractive  for  me  the  more  I  see  of  her;  her  quiet  good  sense 
and lovingheartedness,  and  perfect  naturalness,  are  very  refreshing 
to  one's  world-used  soul.  Even  poor  Nodes  is  a  much  more  in- 
teresting man  at  the  head  of  his  mill  and  his  family  than  when 
hanging  loose  on  society  in  London — but  it  is  twenty  minutes  after 
four.  Ever  yours, 

J.  C. 


*  Nodes  Newton,  Mrs.  Paulet's  brother  at  Barnsley. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  237 

LETTER  94. 

John  Farster,  Esq.,  58  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Tuesday,  Sept.  14, 1847. 

Dear  Mr.  Forster, — Here  I  am,  then!  returned  to  Chelsea;  a 
sadder  and  a  wiser  woman  for  my  five  weeks  of  pursuit  of  the 
picturesque  under  difliculties.  My  husband  and  I  parted  company 
at  Leeds  a  week  ago.  He  is  now  in  Annandale  '  spending  his  time ' 
(he  writes  to  me)  '  chiefly  in  sleeping  and  in  drinking  new  milk 
under  various  forms!'  Rather  bilious  work,  one  would  say!  but 
every  man  to  his  humour!  For  me,  I  am  spending  my  time  chiefly 
in  loving  the  devil  out  of  a — Yorkshire  kitten!  which  I  have 
adopted  for  its  inexpressible  charm  of  tigerishness.  But  a  huge 
brown-paper  parcel  of  MS.  lies  like  an  incubus  on  my  free  spirit! 
What  is  to  be  done?    When  and  how  are  we  to  get  through  it? 

Since  I  arrived  on  Friday  night,  I  have  spoken  with  no  mortal 
but  my  maid,  and  twice  for  ten  minutes  with  my  brother-in-law.  I 
believe,  besides  you,  there  is  still  a  man,  or  perhaps  two,  of  my  ac- 
quaintance left.  But  I  feel  so  mesmerised  by  the  silence  and  the 
dimness,  that  I  have  no  power  to  announce  my  return. 

Write  to  me.    I  am  prepared  for  anything. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  95. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea  :  Thursday,  Sept.  16,  1847. 

Here  are  three  notes  for  you,  dear;  and  I  cannot  send  them  with- 
out a  few  lines  from  myself,  though  up  to  the  ears  in  my  curtains. 

If  I  had  waited  patiently  a  few  hours  longer  yesterday,  I  might 
have  spared  you  a  shrewing.  Your  nice  long  letter  came  in  the 
evening;  and  before  that,  I  had  also  seen  John,  and  been  favoured 
with  a  reading  of  your  letter  to  him.  I  could  have  found  in  my 
heart  to  box  his  ears,  when  I  found  it  had  been  in  his  pocket  since 
Monday  night,  and  I  only  told  of  it  then,  at  three  o'clock  on  Wed- 
nesday, after  my  remonstrance  was  gone  to  the  post-office.  He 
did  not  seem  to  consider  my  impatience  in  the  meanwhile  '  of  the 
slightest  consequence. '    In  fact,  he  is,  for  the  moment,  '  a  miserable 


238  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

wretch,  lost  in  proof-sheets.' '  He  reminds  me  of  the  grej^  chicken 
at  Craigenputtock,  that  went  about  for  six  weeks  cackling  over  its 
first  egg.  If  everybody  held  such  a  racket  over  his  book  as  he,  over 
this  Dante  of  his,  the  world  would  be  perfectly  uninhabitable. 
But  he  comes  seldom,  and  has  always  to  '  take  the  road  again '  in  a 
few  minutes,  so  I  manage  to  endure  the  cackling  with  a  certain 
stoicism. 

Nothing  has  happened  to  me  since  yesterday,  except  that  in  the 
evening  I  was  startled,  almost  terrified,  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  It 
was  Fuz!  I  had  written  to  him  about  G.'s^  manuscript,  and  he  an- 
swered my  note  in  person,  by  return  of  post.  I  had  expected  '  a 
gentle  and  free  passage  of  pennies,'  extending  through,  perhaps,  a 
fortnight,  before  a  meeting  actually  came  off. 

He  seemed  very  strong-hearted  for  the  reading,  which  could  not, 
however,  be  commenced  last  night,  for  he  had  to  attend  the  sale  of 
Shakespeare's  house;  but  on  Sunday  evening,  'by  all  that  was 
sacred,'  we  would  fall  to  in  earnest,  'trusting  in  God  that  on  that 
night  he  should  find  me  in  good  voice.'  Meanwhile,  'were  there 
any  books — anything  on  earth — I  wished? '  He  would  send  Henry 
to-day.     He  stayed  only  half-an-hour — very  fat! 

This  morning  a  still  greater  terror  struck  into  me  when  a  carriage 
stopped  at  the  door  while  I  was  sitting  at  breakfast  in  my  dressing- 
gown.  It  was  Anthony  Sterling  on  his  way  from  Headley.  He  did 
not  offer  at  coming  in ;  merely  sent  the  servant  to  ask  if  I  would 
.be  at  home  in  the  afternoon.  I  am  glad  he  is  coming,  for  I  will 
get  him  to  send  me  his  painter,  the  one  who  was  to  bring  me  an 
estimate  having  never  returned.  I  walked  up  to  the  Library  yes- 
terday to  get  myself,  if  possible,  something  to  read.  White  Owl  ^ 
expected  to-day:  library  '  too  bad  for  anything;'  oflBcials  mortal 
drunk,  or  worse — overtaken  with  incurable  idiocy!  Not  a  book  one 
could  touch  without  getting  oneself  made  filthy.  I  expressed  my 
horror  of  the  scene,  and  was  answered:  'Are  you  aware,  ma'am, 
of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Cochrane?'  I  brought  away  the  last  four 
numbers  of  '  Vanity  Fair,'  and  read  one  of  them  in  bed,  during  the 
night.     Very  good,  indeed,  beats  Dickens  out  of  the  world. 

Chalmers  is  now  raising  brick  fabrics — perfectly  incomprehensible 


'  '  Lost  in  statistics,'  said  old  Sterling,  of  a  certain  philosopher  here. 

'  Geraldine. 

3  Poor  old  Cochrane,  our  first  librarian  of  London  Library,  and  essentially 
the  builder  and  architect  there.  The  only  real  bibliographer  I  have  ever  met 
with  in  Britain. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  229 

in  their  meaning  hitherto  '—in  front  of  his  house.''  I  told  old  John 
and  the  other  workmen,  yesterday,  that  there  was  no  longer  a  doubt 
that  they  had  all  gone  perfectly  deranged.  John  shook  his  head 
quite  sorrowfully,  and  said  '  it  was  only  too  true.' 

The  '  National,'  Fuz  told  me,  had  started  a  very  feasible  idea 
about  the  Duke  de  Praslin's  intention,  in  taking  the  loaded  pistol 
with  him.  He  had  ordered  the  porter  to  come  half-au-hour  sooner 
than  usual,  and  straight  to  his  bedroom.  He  meant  to  shoot  the 
porter,  and  make  him  pass  for  the  murderer. 

Fuz  was  awfully  excited  on  the  subject  of  Luzzi.' 

Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  0. 

LETTER  96. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  "Wednesday,  Sept.  22,  1847. 

Tou  are  to  know,  then,  that  ever  since  I  wrote  the  last  letter  to 

you,  I  have  had  no  history  'to  speak  of,'  having  been  confined 

pretty  constantly  to  bed.     When  I  wrote  the  last  letter,  I  was  already 

ill ;  in  fact,  I  had  never  felt  well  from  the  first  day  of  ray  return. 

But  at  that  writing,  I  perceived  I  was  in  for  some  sort  of  regular 

illness.     I  thought,  at  first,  it  was  going  to  be  a  violent  cold,  but  it 

has  not  turned  to  a  cold.     I  suppose  a  doctor  would  call  it  some 

sort  of  bilious  or  nervous  fever.      Whatever  it  has  been,  I  have 

suffered  horribly  from  irritation,  nausea,  and  languor;  but  now  I 

am  in  the  way  of  getting  well  again.     I  am  out  of  bed  to-day,  and 

able  to  write  to  you,  as  you  see.     John  has  been  very  kind  to  me, 

since  he  knew  of  my  illness,  which  was  not  till  Sunday  afternoon. 

He  has  come  to  see  me  twice  a  day;   and  one  time  stayed  four 

hours  in  my  bedroom,  reading  to  me,  &c.     I  prohibited  him  from 

telling  you  of  it,  as  I  did  not  want  you  to  be  kept  anxious.    But 

now  I  am  so  much  better  that  there  is  not  the  slightest  occasion  for 

anxiety;  and  as  to  your  being  there,  and  not  here,  I  assure  you  it 

has  been  the  greatest  possible  comfort  to  me  that  it  so  happened.    I 

can  be  twice  as  patient  and  composed,  I  find,  when  there  is  nobody 

put  about  by  my  being  laid  up.     Had  you  been  here,  I  should  have 

struggled  on  longer  without  taking  to  bed,  and  been  in  the  desper- 

atest  haste  to  get  out  of  it.     All  the  nursing  possible  has  been  given 


>  Turned  out  to  be  a  porch  and  pillars.  '  Then  No.  4,  Cheyne  Row. 

'  Have  forgotten. 


280  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

me,  by  Anne  and  Mrs.  Piper ;  and  the  perfect  quiet  of  the  house 
could  not  have  been  had  on  other  terms,  nor  could  Anne  have  had 
time  to  attend  to  me  as  I  required,  if  we  had  not  had  the  house  all 
to  ourselves. 

So  do  not  be  vaixed,  and  do  not  be  uneasy;  I  have  no  ailment 
novp,  but  weakness,  and  so  soon  as  I  can  get  into  the  air,  that  will 
wear  off. 

And  now  I  must  stop  for  this  time. 

Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

Sept.  23. 
You  must  have  another  little  letter  to-day,  dear,  in  case  you  take 
a  notion  to  fret.  I  continue  to  mend  rapidly.  One  of  the  people 
who  has  been  kindest  to  me  during  my  illness  is  '  old  John.' '  He 
has  actually  reduced  all  the  pianos  to  utter  silence.  Hearing  Anne 
say  that  the  noise  of  his  ladies  was  enough  to  drive  her  mistress 
mad,  he  said,  '  I  will  put  a  stop  to  that,'  and  went  immediately  him- 
self into  the  drawing-room,  and  told  the  ladies  then  at  the  piano, 
'  he  wondered  they  were  not  ashamed  of  themselves,  making  such 
a  noise,  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  at  death's  door  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall.'    And  there  has  not  been  a  note  struck  since — five  days  ago. 

J.  C. 

LETTER  97. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Friday,  Sept.  24, 1847. 

You  can't  be  said,  dear,  to  have  wasted  many  letters  on  me  in 
this  absence;  but  if  you  'feel  a  stop  '  (Quakerly  speaking),  best  to 
let  it  have  way;  no  good  comes  of  forcing  nature,  in  the  matter 
of  writing  or  any  other  matter. 

Meanwhile,  I  go  on  mending.  I  had  more  sleep  last  night,  and 
feel  strong  enough  to-day  to  meditate  a  short  turn  in  the  open  air. 
When  John  comes,  I  shall  propose  it  to  him.  I  am  not  to  go  to 
Addiscombe  to-morrow.  Last  night,  at  ten  o'clock,  I  was  just  go- 
ing to  bed  very  tired,  John  and  Mazzini  having  sat  talking  '  Dante  ' 
beside  me,  till  I  had  to  be  struck  with  a  sudden  thought  that  M. 
would  miss  the  Hoxton  omnibus,  unless  John  saw  him  off  instantly, 

>  Servant  in  the  adjoining  house. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  231 

when  Anne  came  to  announce  the  important  fact  of  Mr.  Fleming. 
'  Well,'  I  said,  '  send  him  away;  I  cannot  receive  him  at  this  time 
of  night.'  But  he  would  not  be  sent  away.  '  He  had  come  charged 
with  a  message  from  Lady  Harriet  (!),  and  if  I  would  just  see  him 
for  five  minutes.'  The  other  time  he  called  was  with  Mr.  Baring; 
changed  times  for  little  Mrs.  Harris.' 

The  message  was,  that  Lady  H.  was  coming  up  on  Saturday,  to 
dine  at  Holland  House  on  Sunday;  so  that  she  could  not  send  for 
me  on  Saturday,  according  to  programme,  but  would  take  me 
down  with  her  on  Monday.  This  she  had  told  him  (Fleming)  when 
he  was  'seeing  her  off;'  and  he  would  tell  her  my  answer  '  when 
he  dined  with  her  at  Holland  House.'  'How  very  odd,' I  said, 
' that  you  should  be  acting  as  Lady  H.'s  Ariel!'  'Oh,  not  at  all 
now;  we  are  excellent  friends  now,  since  we  stayed  together  at 
Sir  W.  Molesworth's;  and  there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  her! 
she  is  the  dearest,  playfuUest,  wittiest  creature.  I  love  her  beyond 
everything.'     'Very  absurd.' 

If  I  can  get  off  from  going  now,  without  discourtesy,  I  will;  for 
to  stay  over  Tuesday  is  not  worth  the  fag  of  going  and  coming; 
besides,  my  painting  will  terminate,  I  expect,  on  Saturday  night. 
And  there  is  yet  another  thing  that  takes  away  my  ardour  for  go- 
ing, Fleming  gravely  accused  me  of  having  brought  on  this  ill- 
ness, as  I  did  so  many  others,  by  my  '  uulieard-of  imprudence.' 
'  Lady  Harriet  assures  me  that  nothing  was  ever  like  your  indis- 
cretion in  diet,  and  that  all  these  attacks  proceed  from  that  cause. ' 
Now,  I  require  to  have  every  furtherance  given  to  any  faculty 
that  may  lie  in  me  for  eating  and  drinking  at  present,  instead  of 
living  and  eating  in  the  fear  of  being  thought  and  published  a  glut- 
ton.' The  quantity  of  wine  that  John  prescribes  for  me  might 
also  obtain  me  the  reputation  of  a  drunkard.  And  I  believe  it 
quite  necessary,  when  for  days  together  one's  pulse  '  could  not  be 
counted.'  Fleming's  '  five  miniites'  prolonged  themselves  to  half- 
an-hour,  and  then  I  was  obliged  to  tell  him  that  I  could  sit  up  no 
longer.  And  he  went  away  in  his  little  tlumder  andlightning  em- 
broidered shirt,  and  his  little  new  curled  wig,  lisping  out:  'I  shall 
tell  Lady  Harriet  that  I  found  you  in  a  temperature  sufficient  to 
produce  a  bilious  fever.'  It  was  all  1  could  do  to  keep  from  sum- 
moning all  my  remaining  strength  together  and  '  doubling  him 

'  He  used  to  come  very  assiduously  hither,  poor  little  soul,  but  was  now 
rising  in  the  world. 
"  Singular  indeed  1    In  this  world  the  force  of  nonsense  could  no  farther  go. 


23^  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

up,''  prating  in  tliat  fashion  to  me,  who  had  just  come  through 
such  a  week  of  suffering.  Never  mind,  Chalmers's  old  John  comes 
to  ask  after  me  the  first  thing  every  morning;  and  he  keeps  all  the 
pianos  down.  And  my  maid  nurses  me  with  an  alacrity  and  kind- 
ness that  could  not  be  bought  with  money;  and  the  more  I  eat,  the 
better  you  are  always  pleased. 

Kind  regards  to  them  all.  I  hope  your  mother  don't  say  every 
half -hour,  '  i  wonder  how  Jane  is?  ' 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 
LETTER  98. 

To  T.  Garlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Addiscombe":  Friday,  Oct.  1, 1847. 

Just  two  lines,  dear,  before  starting,  in  case  I  arrive,  as  is  likely, 
with  a  head  too  bad  for  writing  from  Chelsea,  by  to-day's  post. 

My  visit  here  has  gone  off  rather  successfully  in  one  sense.  I 
never  saw  Lady  Harriet  in  such  spirits,  so  talkative  and  disposed 
to  be  talked  to.  I  should  have  enjoyed  being  beside  her  more  than 
usual  if  I  had  not  felt  a  need  of  exerting  myself  much  beyond  my 
strength,  as  she  made  a  point  of  ignoring  the  fact  that  anything 
ailed  me.  I  fancy  it  must  be  one  of  her  notions  about  me,  that  1 
am  hypochondriacal ;  and  to  be  made  well  by  being  treated  as  though 
there  was  not  a  doubt  of  it.^ 

Happily,  I  have  got  through  it  without  giving  any  trouble;  but 
shall  be  glad  to  get  home  to-day,  where  I  may  have  a  fire  in  my 
room  vvhen  I  am  shivering,  and  a  glass  of  wine  when  I  am  exhausted, 
and  may  go  to  bed  when  my  head  gets  the  better  of  me,  without 
feeling  it  to  be  '  a  secret  to  displease  her.'  Every  day  here  I  have 
had  to  slip  into  bed  about  two,  and  lie  with  a  dreadful  headache  till 
five,  when  it  went  suddenly  away.  And  when  the  housemaid  (not 
Eliza,  she  is  in  town)  found  that  I  lighted  my  bedroom  fire  myself, 
she  carried  away  the  coals;  and  no  bell  could  bring  her;  and  the 
room  is  so  cold  and  damp  now  there  is  no  sun.  And  then  no  din- 
ner till  six,  and  no  wine  but  hock,  which  makes  me  ill;  and  John 
had  bid  me  take  two  glasses  (no  less)  of  Madeira;  and,  in  short, 
'  there  is  no  place  like  home  '  for  being  sick  in;  and  I  should  under- 

1  Dickens,  '  Dombey's  marriage,'  man  of  '  science '  contemplating  Dombey 
on  that  occasion. 
3  On  a  visit  to  Lady  Harriet  Baring. 
i  Patience  1  patience  1  but  there  never  was  a  more  complete  mistake. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  233 

stand  this,  once  for  all.  I  am  a  little  stronger,  however,  than  I 
came,  though  I  have  not  had  one  good  night,  and  I  expect  to  feel 
the  benefit  of  the  change  when  I  return.  When  I  look  at  my  white, 
white  face  in  the  glass,  I  wonder  how  anybody  can  believe  I  am 
fancying.  Ever  yours, 

J.  C. 

LETTER  99. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Saturday,  Oct.  8, 1847. 
'Thanks  God,'  dear,  I  write  from  home  again!  I  arrived  yester- 
day, much  in  the  state  I  expected,  with  a  racking  headache  and 
faceache,  but  also  with  a  little  '  monarch  of  all  I  survey  '  feeling, 
which  was  compensation  '  for  much '  I  In  my  life  I  think  I  never 
did  so  enjoy  giving  orders  and  being  waited  upon  as  last  night,  and 
being  asked  what  I  would  like  to  take,  and  getting  it!  And  thanks 
to  the  considerable  mess  of  porridge,  which  John  inculcated,  I  had 
some  sleep,  and  to-day  I  am  quite  free  of  headache,  and  the  faceache 
is  greatly  diminished;  and  I  had  very  nice  coffee  in  bed,  and  a 
fire  to  dress  at,  and,  in  short,  I  feel  in  a  state  of  luxury  perfectly 
indescribable!  Your  letter  last  night,  too,  was  a  most  agreeable 
surprise ;  two  letters  in  one  day !  That  I  was  not  exacting  enough 
to  have  ever  looked  for!  Lady  Harriet  spoke  of  writing  to  you  one 
of  these  days.  On  Monday  she  comes  to  town,  to  go  to  the  Grange 
on  Tuesday,  perhaps;  for,  if  Charles  Buller  comes  from  Cornwall 
on  Monday,  he  might  like  one  day  at  the  Cottage  before  they  go,  in 
which  case  they  would  put  off  going  to  the  Grange  till  Wednesday. 
Or,  perhaps,  'if  Mr.  Baring  wants  hoo  days  in  London,' Lady  H. 
would  come  up  with  him  on  Monday  and  go  somewhere  (Lord 
Grey's,  I  think)  over  Tuesday.  At  all  events,  the  Grange,  after 
Wednesday,  seemed  her  probable  address.  Some  time  in  Novem- 
ber she  expected  to  be  in  town  for  a  week;  and  after  Christmas  she 
wished  us  to  go  to  Alverstoke.  She  has  got  a  grey  Spanish  horse, 
looked  up  for  her  by.  Mr.  Fleming,  and  a  new  riding  habit  and 
beaver,  and  is  'going  to  ride  quick  now.'  The  coachman  has  made 
a  new  epigram  about  you.  He  was  backing  out  Mr.  Baring  in  try- 
ing  to  persuade  her  ladyship  to  ride  the  'Kangaroo.'  '  Good  gra- 
cious! '  said  Lady  H.,  '  do  none  of  you  remember  how  it  behaved 
with  Mrs.  Carlyle?  She  could  not  ride  it!'  'Pooh!  pooh!'  said 
.tlio  old  humbug,  '  Mrs.  Carlyle  could  have  ridden  the  horse  perfectly 


234  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

well ;  it  was  not  the  horse  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  afraid  of.     What  she 
was  afraid  of  was  Mr.  Carlyle!' 

Well,  if  the  coachmaii  don't  appreciate  you,  here  is  'a  young 
heart '  that  does,  '  immortal  one! ' 

The  note  I  send  is  accompanied  by  a  blood-red  volume  entitled 
'  Criticisms.'  I  have  looked  at  the  gratitude  in  the  preface — a  very 
grand  paragraph  indeed  about  the  magnificent  Trench!  and  the 
colossal  Carlyle ;  one  of  whom  '  reminds  us  of  some  gigantic  river, 
now  winding,'  &c.,  &c. ;  'the  other  of  some  tremendous  being, 
struggling  with  mighty  power, '  &c. ,  &c.  A  very  tremendous  block- 
head does  this  writer  remind  us  of! 

I  can  tell  you  next  to  nothing  of  Mazzini.  After  I  had  been  at 
home  a  week  I  sent  him  simply  my  visiting  card,  which,  however, 
he  immediately  replied  to  in  person ;  but  when  he  arrived  I  had 
already  fallen  ill,  was  just  going  to  bed  in  a  fainting  state,  and  could 
merely  shake  hands  with  him  and  bid  him  go  away.  He  sent  to  ask 
for  me  two  or  three  days  after,  and  a  week  after  he  came  one  even- 
ing when  John  was  here,  who  kept  him  all  the  time  talking  about 
Dante,  and  in  an  hour  I  was  wearied  and  sent  them  away  together. 
That  is  all  I  have  seen  of  him ;  and  all  he  had  got  to  tell  me  of  '  our 
things '  was  that  he  had  been  for  weeks  expecting  private  informa- 
tion that  would  take  him  away  at  an  hour's  notice,  but  that  now 
there  seemed  no  prospect  of  anytliing  immediate  taking  effect,  and 
that  on  the  10th  October  he  would  go  to  Paris  for  a  month,  and 
'  into  the  valley  of  Madame  Sand.'  I  asked  if  he  had  meant  to  put 
himself  at  the  disposal  of  the  Pope.  'Oh,  no! '  he  said;  what  he 
aimed  at  was  '  to  organise  and  lead  an  expedition  into  Lombardy, 
which  would  be  better  than  being  an  individual  under  the  Pope,' 
in  which  words  seemed  to  me  to  lie  the  whole  secret  of  Mazzini's 
'failed  life.' 1 

Kind  regards  to  the  others. 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  100. 

This  is  Thomas  Spedding's  residence.  I  had  halted  there  for  a 
day  or  two  on  my  return.  Very  sad  to  leave  my  dear  old  mother, 
I  can  still  recollect,  and  much  out  of  sorts,  being  still  in  the  dumb 
state.  What  did  come  next  of  writing  after  '  Cromwell '?  Painter 
Lawrence  was  there  and  James  Spedding;  both  in  high  spirits. 

1  Bolte's  translation  of  Verfehltes  Leben. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  285 


To  T.  Carlyle,  Mtrehouse,  Keswick. 

Chelsea:  Saturday,  Oct.  9, 1847. 

Oh,  my  dear!  my  dear!  I  am  so  busy!  which  is  better  than  being 
'.so  sick'!  When  Mrs.  Piper  came  this  morning  and  found  me  on 
the  steps  she  looked  quite  aghast,  and  said,  '  You  will  lay  yourself 
up  again! '  '  Not  a  bit,'  I  told  her;  'I  feel  quite  strong  to-day.'  '  I 
am  afraid,  ma'm,'  suggested  the  little  woman,  'it  is  not  strength, 
but  the  false  excitement  of  Mr.  Carlyle  coming  home! '  Anne  re- 
marked, '  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  no  use  stopping  Missus  if  she  had 
anything  on  her  mind.  She  was  an  example!'  She  'wondered 
where  there  was  another  lady  that  could  stuff  chair-cushions,  and 
do  anything  that  was  needed,  and  be  a  lady  too ! '  So  now  I  think 
I  am  strong  enough  in  Anne's  respect  to  even  smoke  in  her  presence. 
The  worst  of  it  is  that  my  work  in  these  days  has  been  Cromwellian 
work — makes  no  show  for  the  pains,  consists  chiefly  in  annihilating 
rubbish;  annihilating  worms  for  one  thing.  Only  think  of  Henry 
Taylor's  famous  chair  *  being  partly  stuffed  with  dirty  old  carpet 
shorn  small,  which  had  generated  naturally  these  hundred  thousand 
millions  of  '  small  beings '  (as  IMazzini  would  say).  Mrs.  Piper  saw 
some  of  them  outside  when  she  washed  the  covers,  and  I  understood 
that  '  indication  '  at  all  events.  So  I  had  hair,  rubbish,  and  wonns, 
all  boiled  together  in  the  cauldron,  and  then  the  clean  hair  picked 
out,  and  then  I  remade  the  cushions  with  my  own  hands.' 

Besides  this,  I  have  been  in  a  pretty  mess  with  Emerson's  bed, 
having  some  apprehensions  he  would  arrive  before  it  was  up  again. 
The  quantity  of  sewing  that  lies  in  a  lined  chintz  bed  is  something 
awfully  grand!  And  I  have  been  able  to  get  next  to  no  help,  all  the 
sewing  women  I  knew  of  being  unable  to  come,  though  '  sorry  to 
disoblige,' &c.  One  had  'work  on  her  hands  for  three  months'; 
another  was  'under  a  course  of  physic';  another  'found  it  more 
profitable  to  sew  at  home.'  Postie  realised  me  a  little  woman,  who, 
having  a  baby  a  month  old,  could  only  come  for  three  hours  in  the 
day ;  and  one  day  she  came,  and  had  sense  more  or  less,  and  was  to 
come  every  day  for  three  hours  till  we  had  finished.  But  on  going 
home  she  found  '  her  baby  had  never  cried  so  much  since  it  was 
born;'  and  she  came  in  tlie  evening  to  say  she  could  leave  it  no 
more;  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  fall  on  the  thing  like  a 
tiger  myself,  and  it  is  now  well  forward,  though  I  fear  it  will  not 
be  up,  as  I  wished,  to  delight  your  eyes  when  you  come. 

'  A  gift  of  his;  still  here. 


336  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

For  the  rest,  my  life  is  as  still  as  could  be  wished.  Mr.  Ireland  * 
called  last  night  and  told  me  much  of  your  sayings  at  the  Brights. 
Lady  Harriet  called  on  Tuesday  afternoon.  She  had  actually  rid- 
den from  Addiscombe  to  Loudon  the  day  before  on  the  Spanish 
horse.  '  The  coachman  put  Mr.  Baring  on  one  of  the  carriage 
horses,'  neither  'the  Kangaroo  '  nor  the  chestnut  being  judged  safe 
company.  '  He  rode  half  the  way  on  that,  and  then  the  helper  came 
up  on  Muff  (the  pony),  and  he  got  on  Muff  for  the  rest  of  the  way." 
Good  Mr.  Baring!  I  showed  Lady  H.  the  book  of  the  'Young 
Heart,'  and  she  wrote  marginal  notes  all  over  it  for  you,  which,  she 
said,  along  with  the  list  of  books  she  had  sent,  might  stand  very  well 
for  a  letter.  I  could  not  but  think  from  her  manner  that  day  that  she 
had  bethought  her  I  had  been  rather  roughly  handled  on  my  last  visit. 
She  even  offered  me  a  '  tonic,'  which  had  been  given  to  her  by  Sir 
J.  Clarke.  '  Certainly  I  ought  to  have  something  to  strengthen  me; 
something  to  make  me  eat !  She  never  saw  a  human  creature  eat  so 
little!'  And  a  great  many  more  unsayiugs  of  things  she  said  at 
Addiscombe.  She  was  going  to  dine  at  the  Greys  and  next  morn- 
ing to  the  Grange,  where  were  Croker  and  his  women — and  Miss 
Milford  I  !  ! 

Charles  Buller  came  on  Monday,  and  is  going  into  Normandy. 
Miss  Mitford  reminds  me  of  Miss  Strickland.  Craik,  whom  I  saw 
yesterday,  told  me  that  the  book  which  is  the  most  decided  success 
at  present  is  '  The  Queens  of  England '!  Colburn  has  made  some 
twenty  thousand  pounds  by  it!  And  the  authoress  too  is  enriched. 
She  goes  to  the  Duke  of  Cleveland's,  &c.,  &c.  (Lady  Clara  told 
John),  and  is  treated  there  like  a  high-priestess!  everybody  defer- 
ring to  her  opinions. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  all  this  writing,  and  with  such  a  horrid  pen, 
when  you  are  coming  so  soon?  On  Monday  I  hardly  expect  you. 
But  I  shall  hear.  Thanks  for  your  long  letters  in  such  a  worry. 
The  Hunts  ^  give  splendid  soirees. 

Ever  yours  faithfully, 

J.  W.  C. 


1  A  Manchester  '  editorial  gentleman,'  &c.  &c.  He  and  another  took  me 
out  one  evening  to  Rochdale,  where  ensued  (not  by  my  blame  or  seeking)  a 
paltry  enough  speaking-match  with  John  Bright  (topics  commonplace,  shal- 
low, totally  worthless  to  me),  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  that  gentleman,  whom 
I  seem  to  have  known  sufficiently  without  seeing  ever  since. 

'  Our  neighbours  still.    I  know  not  why  so  prosperous  at  present. 


JANE  WELSH  CAKLYLE.  287 

LETTER  101. 

JoTin  Forster,  Esq.,  58  Lincoln'' s  Inn  Fields. 

Chelsea:  Saturday,  Nov.  20, 1847. 

Dear  Mr.  Forster, — Sure  enough,  we  are  in  the  gloomy  month  of 
November,  when  the  people  of  England  '  commit  suicide '  under 
'attenuating  circumstances.'  The  expediency,  nay  necessity,  of 
suiciding  myself  is  no  longer  a  question  with  me.  1  am  only  un- 
certain as  to  the  manner! 

On  Thursday  I  was  appointed  to  go  to  Notting  Hill  to  see  my 
husband's  bust;  and  had  to  break  my  appointment,  unfeeling  as  it 
looked  to  let  myself  be  withheld  by  any  weather  from  going  to  see 
my  husband's  bust.  I  thought  it  would  be  more  really  unfeeling  to 
risk  an  inflammation  in  my  husband's  wife's  chest,  which  makes  my 
husband's  wife  such  a  nuisance  as  you,  an  unmarried  man,  can 
hardly  figure.  Since  then  I  have  mostly  lain  on  the  sofa,  under  the 
horse-cloth,  reading,  '  with  one  eye  .shut  and  the  other  not  open  '  (as 
poor  Darley  used  to  say),  some  of  those  divine  volumes  you  lent  me. 
Surely  it  was  in  the  spirit  of  divination  that  I  selected  '  The  Human 
Body  in  Health  and  Disease';  and  the  '  Means  of  Abridging  Human 
Life';  and  '  Hints  on  the  Formation  of  Character.'  One  has  such 
leisure  for  forming  one's  character  during  a  shut-up  winter! 

You  perceive  whither  all  this  is  tending;  and  wish  that  I  would 
hasten  to  the  catastrophe.  Well,  the  catastrophe  is — I  Avrite  it 
with  tears  in  my  eyes — that  I  cannot  venture  to  the  play  on  Monday 
night.  Even  if  I  did  not,  as  is  almost  certain  I  should,  bring  on  my 
cough,  I  should  pass  for  capricious,  insane;  and  the  worst  of  it  is, 
C,  having  no  louger  a  duty  to  fulfil  in  promoting  my  happiness,  de- 
clares that  he  won't  go  either,  and  that  I  had  best  write  to  you  that 
you  may  take  no  seats  for  us.  I  do  so,  unwillingly;  for  if  the 
weather  were  to  '  go  soft,'  as  Geraldine  would  say,  I  might  be  about 
again  on  Monday ;  and  in  any  case  he  ought  to  go  to  his  friend's  first 
night.     But  there  is  no  rebelling  against  Providence. 

I  am  also  bothered  about  these  proofs;  •  C.  has  got  some  furious 
objection  to  my  meddling  with  them — even  declares  that  I  'do  not 
know  bad  grammar  when  I  see  it,  any  better  than  she  does; '  that 
'  if  I  had  any  faculty  I  might  find  better  employment  for  it,'  &c., 
&c.  So,  after  having  written  to  her  that  I  would  do  what  she 
wished,  I  must  write  again  that  I  am  not  permitted. 

>  Proofs  of  a  novel  by  Miss  Jewsbury. 


238  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

I  do  think  there  is  much  truth  in  the  Young  German  idea  that 
marriage  is  a  shockingly  immoral  institution,  as  well  as  what  we 
have  long  known  it  for — an  extremely  disagreeable  one. 

Please  countermand  the  proofs,  for  every  one  that  comes  occa- 
sions a  row. 

Ever  affectionately  youre, 

J.  C. 

LETTER   102. 
To  John  Welsh,  Esq.,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  Dec.  13, 1847. 

My  dearest  Uncle, — I  write  to  you  de  profundis,  that  is  to  say, 
from  the  depths  of  my  tub-chair,  into  which  I  have  migrated  within 
the  last  two  hours,  out  of  the  still  lower  depths  of  my  gigantic  red 
bed,  which  has  held  me  all  this  week,  a  victim  to  the  '  inclemency 
of  the  season'!  Oh,  uncle  of  my  affections,  such  a  season!  Did 
you  ever  feel  the  like  of  it?  Already  solid  ice  in  one's  water  jug! 
'poor  Gardiners  all  froz  out,' and  Captain  Sterling  going  at  large 
in  a  dress  of  skins,  the  same  that  he  wore  in  Canada!  I  tried  to 
make  head  against  it  by  force  of  volition — kept  off  the  fire  as  if  I 
had  been  still  at  '  Miss  Hall's, '  where  it  was  a  fine  of  sixpence  to 
touch  the  hearthrug,  and  walked,  walked,  on  Carlyle's  pernicious 
counsel  (always  forme,  at  least)  to  'take  the  bull  by  the  horns,' 
instead  of  following  Darwin's  more  sensible  maxim,  '  in  matters  of 
health  always  consult  your  sensations.'  And  so,  'by  working 
late  and  early,  I'm  come  to  what  ye  see  ' !  in  a  tub-chair — a  little 
live  bundle  of  flannel  shawls  and  dressing-gowns,  with  little  or  no 
strength  to  speak  of,  having  coughed  myself  all  to  fiddle-strings  in 
the  course  of  the  week,  and  '  in  a  dibble  of  a  temper,'  if  I  had  only 
anybody  to  vent  it  on! 

Nevertheless,  I  am  sure  '  I  have  now  got  the  turn,'  for  I  feel 
what  Carlyle  would  call  '  a  wholesome  desire  to  smoke  ' !  which 
cannot  be  gratified,  as  C.  is  dining  with  Darwin;  but  the  tendency 
indicates  a  return  to  my  normal  state  of  health. 

The  next  best  thing  I  can  think  of  is  to  write  to  thee ;  beside 
one's  bedroom  fire,  in  a  tub-chair,  the  family  afliections  bloom  up 
so  strong  in  one!  Moreover,  I  have  just  been  reading  for  the  first 
time  Harriet  Marlineau's  outpourings  in  the  '  Athenaeum,'  and  '  that 
minds  me,'  as  my  Helen  says,  that  you  wished  to  know  if  I  too  had 
c:one  into  this  devilish  thing.     Catch  me!    What  I  think  about  it 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  .  239 

were  not  easy  to  say,  but  one  thing  I  am  very  sure  of,  that  the  less, 
one  has  to  do  with  it  the  better;  and  that  it  is  all  of  one  family  with 
witchcraft,  demoniacal  possession — is,  in  fact,  the  selfsame  principle 
presenting  itself  under  new  scientific  forms,  and  under  a  polite 
name.  To  deny  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  animal  magnetism, 
and  that  it  actually  does  produce  many  of  the  phenomena  here  re- 
corded, is  idle ;  nor  do  I  find  much  of  this,  which  seems  wonderful 
because  we  think  of  it  for  the  first  time,  a  whit  more  wonderful 
than  those  common  instances  of  it,  which  never  struck  us  with  sur- 
prise merely  because  we  have  been  used  to  see  them  all  our  lives. 
Everybody,  for  instance,  has  seen  children  thrown  almost  into  con- 
vulsions by  someone  going  through  the  motions  of  tickling  them! 
Nay,  one  has  known  a  sensitive  uncle  shrink  his  head  between  his 
shoulders  at  the  first  pointing  of  a  finger  towards  his  neck! 

Does  not  a  man  physically  tremble  under  the  mere  look  of  a  wild 
beast  or  fellow-man  that  is  stronger  than  himself?  Does  not  a  avo- 
man  redden  all  over  when  she  feels  her  lover's  eyes  on  her?  How 
then  should  one  doubt  the  mj'sterious  power  of  one  individual  over 
another?  Or  what  is  there  more  surprising  in  being  made  rigid 
than  in  being  made  red?  in  falling  into  sleep,  than  in  falling  into 
convulsions?  in  following  somebody  across  a  room,  than  in  trem- 
bling before  him  from  head  to  foot?  I  perfectly  believe,  then,  in 
the  power  of  magnetism  to  throw  people  into  all  sorts  of  unnatural 
states  of  body ;  could  have  believed  so  far  without  the  evidence  of 
my  senses,  and  have  the  evidence  of  my  senses  for  it  also. 

I  saw  Miss  Bolte  magnetised  one  evening  at  ]\Irs.  Buller's  by  a 
distinguished  magnetiser,  who  could  not  sound  his  h's,  and  who 
maintained,  nevertheless,  that  mesmerism  '  consisted  in  moral  and 
intellectual  superiority.'  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  by  gazing  with 
his  dark  animal  eyes  into  hers,  and  simply  holding  one  of  her  hauds^ 
while  his  other  rested  on  her  head,  he  had  made  her  into  the  image 
of  death;  no  marble  was  ever  colder,  paler,  or  more  motionless, 
and  her  face  had  that  peculiarly  beautiful  expression  which  Miss 
Martincau  speaks  of,  never  seen  but  in  a  dead  face,  or  a  mesmer- 
ised one.  Then  he  played  cantrups  with  her  arm  and  leg,  and  left 
tliem  stretched  out  for  an  hour  in  an  attitude  which  no  awake  per- 
son could  have  preserved  for  three  minutes.  I  touched  them,  and 
they  felt  horrid — stiff  as  iron,  I  could  not  bend  them  down  with  all 
my  force.  They  pricked  her  hand  with  the  point  of  a  penknife, 
she  felt  nothing.  And  now  comes  the  .strangest  part  of  m_v  story. 
The  man,  who  regarded  Carlyle  and  me  as  Philistines,  said,  '  No\y 


240  ,   LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP^ 

are  you  convinced?  '  '  Yes,'  said  Carlyle,  '  there  is  no  possibility  of 
doubting  but  that  you  have  stiffened  all  poor  little  Miss  Bolte  there 
into  something  very  awful.'  'Yes,'  said  I  pertly,  'but  then  she 
wished  to  be  magnetised ;  what  I  doubt  is,  whether  anyone  could 
be  reduced  to  that  state  without  the  consent  of  their  own  volition. 
I  should  like  for  instance  to  see  anyone  magnetise  me ! '  '  You  think 
I  could  not? '  said  the  man  with  a  look  of  ineffable  disdain.  'Yes,' 
said  I,  '  I  defy  you! '  '  "Will  you  give  me  your  hand.  Miss?  '  '  Oh, 
by  all  means ;'  and  I  gave  him  my  hand  with  the  most  perfect  con- 
fidence in  my  force  of  volition,  and  a  smile  of  contempt.  He  held 
it  in  one  of  his,  and  with  the  other  made  what  Harriet  Martineau 
calls  some  '  passes  '  over  it,  as  if  he  were  darting  something  from 
his  finger  ends.  I  looked  him  defiantly  in  the  face,  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  You  must  learn  to  sound  your  h's,  sir,  before  you  can  pro- 
duce any  effect  on  a  woman  like  me ! '  And  whilst  this  or  some 
similar  thought  was  passing  through  my  head — flash  there  went 
over  me,  from  head  to  foot,  something  precisely  like  what  I  once 
experienced  from  taking  hold  of  a  galvanic  ball,  only  not  nearly  so 
violent.  I  had  presence  of  mind  to  keep  looking  him  in  the  face, 
as  if  I  had  felt  nothing;  and  presently  he  flung  away  my  hand  with 
a  provoked  look,  saying,  '  I  believe  you  would  be  a  very  diflBcult 
subject,  but  nevertheless,  if  I  had  time  given  me,  I  am  sure  I  could 
mesmerise  you;  at  least,  I  never  failed  with  anyone  as  yet.' 

Now,  if  this  destroyed  for  me  my  theory  of  the  need  of  a  con- 
senting will,  it  as  signally  destroyed  his  of  moral  and  intellectual 
superiority ;  for  that  man  was  superior  to  me  in  nothing  but  animal 
strength,  as  I  am  a  living  woman!  I  could  even  hinder  him  from 
perceiving  that  he  had  mesmerised  me,  by  my  moral  and  intellect- 
ual superiority!  Of  the  clairvoyance  I  have  witnessed  nothing; 
but  one  knows  that  people  with  a  diseased  or  violently  excited  state 
of  nerves  can  see  more  than  their  neighbours.  When  my  insane 
friend  was  in  this  house  he  said  many  things  on  the  strength  of  his 
insanity  which  in  a  mesmerised  person  would  have  been  quoted  as 
miracles  of  clairvoyance. 

Of  course  a  vast  deal  of  what  one  hears  is  humbug.  This  girl  of 
Harriet's  seems  half-diseased,  half-make  believing.  I  think  it  a 
horrible  blasphemy  they  are  there  perpetrating,  in  exploiting  that 
poor  girl  for  their  idle  purposes  of  curiosity!  In  fact,  I  quite  agree 
with  the  girl,  that,  had  this  Mrs.  Winyard  lived  in  an  earlier  age  of 
the  world,  she  would  have  been  burned  for  a  witch,  and  deserved 
it  better  than  many  that  were;  since  her  poking  into  these  mys- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  341 

teries  of  nature  is  not  the  result  of  superstitious  ignorance,  but  of 
educated  self-conceit. 

In  fact,  with  all  this  amount  of  belief  in  the  results  of  animal 
magnetism,  I  regard  it  as  a  damnable  sort  of  tempting  of  Provi- 
dence, which  I,  as  one  soUtary  individual,  will  henceforth  stand 
entirely  aloof  from. 

And  now,  having  given  you  my  views  at  great  length,  I  will  re- 
turn to  my  bed  and  compose  my  mind.  Love  to  all;  thanks  to 
Helen.     With  tremendous  kisses, 

Your  devoted  niece, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

That  wretched  little  Babbie  does  not  write  because  I  owe  her  a 
letter.  A  letter  from  her  would  have  been  some  comfort  in  these 
dreary  days  of  sickness;  but  since  she  has  not  bestowed  it,  I  owe 
her  the  less  thanks. 

LETTER  103. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  AlverstokeJ 

Chelsea:  Monday,  Jan.  17, 1848. 
Well,  dearest,  I  have  written  what  I  have  written,  and  what  I 
have  written  I  will  keep  to.  If  I  am  spared  on  foot  till  Thursday, 
I  will  go  on  Thursday,  and  accept  the  consequences — if  any.  This 
time  I  am  under  engagement  to  go,  and  it  is  pitiful  to  break  one's 
engagement  for  anything  short  of  necessity.  But  I  will  never,  with 
the  health  I  have,  or  rather  have  not,  engage  to  leave  home  for  a 
long  fixed  period,  another  winter.  One  of  the  main  uses  of  a  home 
is  to  stay  in  it,  when  one  is  too  weak  and  spiritless  for  conforming, 
without  effort*  to  the  ways  of  other  houses.  Besides,  is  not  home 
—at  least,  was  it  not  '  in  more  earnest  times ' — '  the  woman's  proper 
sphere '?  Decidedly,  if  she  '  have  nothing  to  keep  her  at  home,'  as 
the  phrase  is,  she  should  'find  something— or  die!'  That  is  my 
idea  in  the  days  of  solitary  musing.  Amusement  after  a  certain  age 
is  no  go;  even  when  there  are  no  other  nullifying  conditions,  it 
gets  to  be  merely  distraction,  in  the  Gambardella  sense;  between 
which  and  distraction  in  the  general  sense  there  is  but  a  thin  parti- 
tion, so  thin  that  one  can  hear  through  it,  whenever  one  likes  to 
listen,  the  clanking  of  chains,    and  the  shrieking  of  '  mads,'  as 


»  Carlyle  on  visit  there  to  Mr.  and  Lady  Harriet  Baring,  has  written  to  press 
his  wife  U)  join  him.— J.  A.  F, 
I.-U 


242  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

plainly  as  I  am  bearing  at  this  moment  the  Chalmers's  pianoforte. 
Ah,  yes,  I  had  found  out  that,  'by  my  own  smartness,' before  I 
took  to  reading  on  insanity.  To  be  sure,  it  is  hard  on  flesh  and 
blood,  when  one  '  has  nothing  to  keep  one  at  home,'  to  sit  down  in 
honest  life-weariness,  and  look  out  into  unmitigated  zero;  but  per- 
haps it  'would  be  a  great  advantage  '  just  to  '  go  ahead  '  in  that; 
the  bare-faced  indigence  of  such  a  state  might  drive  one,  like  tlie 
piper's  cow, to  '  consider,' '  and  who  knows  but,  in  considering  long 
enough,  one  might  discover  what  one  'has  wanted,'  and  what  one 
'  wants ' — an  essential  preliminary  to  getting  it.  Meanwhile  here  is 
Hare's  Sterling  book  come  for  you — late,  for  Miss  Wynne  had  read 
it  four  days  ago — and  '  with  the  publisher's  compliments. '  No  copy 
had  been  sent  to  Anthony  when  I  saw  him ;  he  had  bought  it,  and 
said  if  you  did  not  feel  yourself  bound  to  place  his  brother  in  a  true 
light,  he  must  attempt  it  himself.  By  the  way,  what  a  fine  fellow 
that  Mr.  O.  Holmes  Is!  a  sort  of  man  that  one  would  like  to  see. 
And  Dr.  MacEnnery,  did  not  you  find  his  letter  had  a  sort  of  Crom- 
"wellian  sincerity  and  helplessness  'not  without  worth  '?  My  head 
aches  a  great  deal,  which  is  natural,  for,  except  the  first  night  after 
you  went,  I  have  slept  little — some  three  hours  a  night,  and  that  in 
small  pieces;  but  I  am  able  to  lie  quite  peaceably,  without  reading. 

LETTER  104. 

To  T  Carlyle,  Esq. ,  at  Alverstoke. 

Chelsea:  Jan  18, 1848. 

Ah,  my  dear!  We  are  both  busy  reflecting,  it  would  seem; 
driven  to  it,  by  quite  opposite  pressures — you  by  stress  of  society, 
and  I  by  stress  of  solitude.  A  la  bonne  lieure  !  reflection  is  golden ; 
provided  one  '  go  into  practice  with  it; '  otherwise,  i^,  as  in  my  case, 
for  most  part  it  serves  only  to  make  the  inward  darkness  more  visi- 
ble, why,  then,  as  John  said  of  the  senna ,  one  had  '  better  take  it, 
but  perhaps  one  had  better  not.' 

Poor  human  creatures  '  after  all '!  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  them, 
severally,  and  in  the  lump;  think  sometimes  it  would  be  'a  great 
advantage'  if  we  were  all  '  fed  off ! '  but  one  thinks  many  things,  in 
moments  of  wrienthusiasm,  which  one  does  not  authentically  mean. 
To-day,  however,  is  the  brightest  of  sunshiny  days;  and  last  night 
I  slept  like  a  Christian,  and  so  I  ought  to  feel  better,  and  shall,  per- 
haps, before  evening.     No  letters  but  your  own,  for  which  I  was 

»  Note,  p.  56. 


JANE  WELSH  CAKLYLE.  243 

thankful.     There  was  one  last  night  from  Espinasse — too  much  of 

Emerson,  -whom  he  'likes  much  better  than  he  did.'    In  reply  to 

my  charge  that  Emerson  had  no  ideas  (except  mad  ones)  that  he 

had  not  got  out  of  you,  Espinasse  answers  prettily,  'but  pray,  Mrs. 

Carlyle,  who  has? '     He  (E.)  had  been  discussing  you  with  a  '  Bey,' 

whom  he  met  at  Geraldiue's,  sent  by  the  Egyptian  ;  and  the  Bey 

'  had  the  impudence  to  say ' :  '  M.  Carlyle  u'ci  2)as  assez  defoncl  pour 

V  esprit  franqaise.' 

I  must  not  write  any  more  to-daj^  for  that  weary  head  'likes' 

writing  as  ill  as  Mrs.  Howatsou's  '  disguster'  liked  ewe  cheese. 

Faithfully  yours, 

Jane  W.  C. 
LETTER  105. 

To  T.  Carlyle  at  Alversioke. 

Chelsea:  Jan.  21,  1848. 

Well,  dear,  I  have  written  to  Lady  Harriet  that  I  am  not  going  at 
all — the  only  rational  course  under  the  circumstances.  So  now  j-ou 
are  to  do  what  you  think  best  for  yourself,  without  reference  to 
me.  You  are  uot  to  hurry  home  on  my  account.  I  am  not  so  ill 
as  to  make  that  a  duty  for  you;  nor  so  well  as  to  make  it  a  pleas- 
ure. But  if  you  continue  ill  yourself,  you  will  certainly  be  better 
in  your  own  nest,  with  me  to  tell  it  to,  and  all  your  own  way,  as 
far  as  material  things  are  concerned.  Do  not  be  uneasy  about  me. 
I  .should  know  the  ways  of  this  sort  of  cold  by  now;  and  I  am  sure 
that  with  reasonable  care  it  need  turn  to  nothing  dangerous,  tliough 
it  might  easily  be  fixed  in  my  lungs  by  any  rashness.  John  said  he 
would  write  a  note  himself.  I  sent  for  him  to  take  counsel  before 
I  began  writing.  Some  Watts  have  come  to  town,  with  whom  he 
dines,  &c. ;  and  it  is  amazing  how,  in  a  few  days,  he  has  gone  all  to 
smithers  (morally).  Last  night  he  came,  for  an  hour,  before  going 
to  these  Watts,  and  found  me  lying  on  the  sofa,  very  mucli  done 
up,  and  crtj^«(7 worse  than  usual.  'How  d'ye  do?'  he  said,  like 
Mr.  Toots. 

Mercy,  I  am  going  to  be  belated. 

LETTER  106. 

To  John  Forster,  Esq.,  58  Lincoln' s-Inn  Fields. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Saturday,  Feb.  1848. 
Dear  Mr.  Forster, — It  is  too  bad  to  plague  you  with  '  a  delicate 
embarrassment '  of  mine,  when  you  are  overhead  in  '  earnest  work;' 


244  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

but  what  can  I  do?    If  you  do  not  cut  me  out,  my  husband  will,  at 
the  least,  send  me  to  Gehenna;  and  I  would  much  rather  not. 

Geraldine  writes  to  me  this  morning  (our  correspondence  had 
been  at  a  still-stand  ever  since  that  feast  of  '  meats,' '  and  love,  and 
tobacco,  at  the  Fornisari's)  that  I  may  expect  a  copy  of  her  book 
next  week.  I  had  no  notion  it  would  be  ready  so  soon.  "Well!  for 
the  delicate  embarrassment — she  does  not  say  anything  about  the 
dedication  to  Mrs.  Paulet  and  myself,  which  her  heart  was  much  set 
on  some  months  ago,  and  which,  that  is  my  share  in  it,  I  neither  posi- 
tively accorded  to,  nor  positively  declined  at  the  time,  meaning  to 
revise  the  question  when  the  book  was  ready  for  being  dedicated, 
and  to  be  guided  by  my  husband's  authentic  feelings  in  the  matter. 
Knowing  his  dislike  to  be  connected  in  people's  minds,  by  even  the 
slightest  spider-thread,  with  what  he  calls  '  George  Sandism  and  all 
that  accursed  sort  of  thing,'  I  was  not  sure  that  the  half-toleration 
he  gave  when  asked  about  it  would  not  be  changed  into  prohibi- 
tion, if  he  found  it  likely  to  be  acted  upon.  At  the  time  I  sounded 
his  feelings,  the  book,  I  was  able  to  assure  him,  contained  nothing 
questionable.  Can  I  say  so  now  ?  If  anything  of  the  last  chapters 
I  read  be  left  in  it,  not  only  would  he  detest  a  dedication  to  his 
wife,  but  his  wife  herself  would  detest  it.  What  I  want  you  to  do 
is,  if  there  be  a  dedication,  to  erase  my  name;  and  leave  it  all  to 
Mrs.  Paulet,  and  tell  me  that  you  have  so  done;  and  I  will  write  to 
Geraldine  an  explanation  of  the  fact.  If  there  be  no  dedication, 
tell  me  all  the  same,  and  then  I  shall  not  need  to  hurt  the  poor  lit- 
tle soul's  sensibilities  by  a  premature  refusal.  You  see  how  I  am 
situated,  wishing  not  to  give  pain  to  Geraldine — still  less  to  give 
offence  to  my  husband;  and  least  of  all,  to  promenade  myself  as  an 
'  emancipated '  woman.  I  am  still  confined  to  the  house — weary 
work.  Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carltle. 

Have  you  the  other  novels  of  the  Currer  Bell  people?  I  should 
like  them  any  time. 

LETTER  107. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Croydon  2;  Thursday,  April  13, 1848. 
If  better  for  you  in  all  other  respects  that  I  should  remain  in 
'  some  other  part  of  the  country,'  my  return  will  have,  at  least,  one 

1  Not '  shells  '  (Ossian). 

*  Mrs.  Carlyle,  after  three  months'  illness,  was  now  at  Addiscombe.— J.  A.  F. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  2.45 

comfort  in  it,  that  I  do  serve  to  '  stave  ofE '  the  people  from  you, 
especially  at  meal-times?    But  perhaps  it  is  more  the  cold  than  the 
people  that  makes  you  more  unwell  than  usual  in  these  days.     I 
have  no  people  here  to  vrorry  me,  have  nothing  to  complain  of  as 
to  diet,  or  hours,  or  noise ;  and  I  have  not  had  one  well  moment 
day  or  night,  except  that  day  you  came.     However,  I  have  always 
been  able  to  keep  on  foot,  and  to  put  a  good  face  on  myself;  so  I 
have  not  had  the  un-'  pleasant  additimental '  consciousness  of  being 
a  bore.     Mr.  Baring  has  not  returned  yet.     On  Tuesday  evening, 
after  dinner,  Lady  Harriet  went  up  to  the  opera— very  rashly,  I 
thought,  having  risen  from  her  sofa  to  go ;  but  she  returned  quite 
well  next  day  about  one  o'clock.     Mr.  Baring  is  not  to  come,  I  be- 
lieve, till  she  goes  up  for  the  Molesworth  dinner  on  Sunday.     The 
evening  I  spent  here,  so  unexpectedly,  alone,  was  like  a  morphia 
dream.     The  stillness  was  something  superhuman,  for  the  servants, 
it  seemed  to  me,  so  soon  as  they  got  their  Lady  out  of  the  way, 
went,  all  but  Williams,  off  into  space.     Wliile  I  was  upstairs  for  a 
moment,  light  had  been  brought  in ;  and,  an  hour  after,  tea  was 
placed  for  me  in  the  same  invisible  manner.     I  looked,  to  myself, 
sitting  there,  all  alone,  in  the  midst  ol  comforts  and  luxuries  not 
my  own,  like  one  of  those  wayfarers  in  the  fairy  tales,  who,  having 
left  home  with  '  a  bannock '  to  '  poose  their  fortune,'  and  followed 
the  road  their  '  stick  fell  towards,' find  themselves  in  a  beautiful 
enchanted  palace,  where  all  their  wants  are  supplied  to  them  by 
supernatural  agency; — hospitality  of  the  most  exquisite  descrip- 
tion, only  without  a  host!     I  had  been  reading  Swift  all  day;  but  I 
found  that  now  too  prosaical  for  my  romantic  circumstances;  and, 
seeking  through  the  books,  I  came  upon  '  The  Romance  of  the 
Forest,'  which  I  seized  on  with  avidity,  remembering  the  'tremen- 
dous' emotions  with  which  I  read  it  in  my  night-shift,  by  the  red 
light  of  our  dying  schoolroom  fire,  nearly  half  a  century  ago,  when 
I  was  supposed  to  be  sleeping  the  sleep  of  good  children.     And 
over  that  I  actually  spent  the  whole  evening;  it  was  so  interesting 
to  measure  my  progress— downwards  I  must  think— by  comparing 
my  present  feelings  at  certain  well-remembered  passages  with  the 
past.     After  all,  it  miglit  have  been  worse  with  my   imaginative 
past.     I  decidedly  like  the  dear  old  l)Ook,  even  in  this  year  of  grace, 
far  better  than  'Rose  Blanche,' &c.'     Execrable,  that  is;  I  could 
not  have   suspected   even   the  ape   of  writing  anything  so   silly* 
Lady  H.  read  it  all  the  way  down,  and  decided  it  was  '  too  vulgar 

>  G.  H.  Lewes's  novel. 


246  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

to  go  on  with.'  I  myself  should  have  also  laid  it  aside  in  the  first 
half  volume  if  I  had  not  felt  a  pitying  interest  in  the  man,  that 
makes  me  read  on  in  hope  of  coming  to  something  a  little  better. 
Your  marginal  notes  are  the  only  real  amusement  I  have  got  out  of 
it  hitherto. 

My  head  feels  as  usual  to  be  full  of  melted  lead,  swaying  this 
way  and  that.  There  is  no  walking  off  the  heaviness  if  walkable 
off,  for  the  rain  is  incessant.  Tell  Anne  to  bid  the  confectiouer 
bake  half  a  dozen  fresh  little  cakes  for  the  X 's.  Have  pati- 
ence with  them.  Are  they  not  seeking,  which  is  next  best  to  hav- 
ing found  ? 

Ever  yours, 

J.  C. 
LETTER  108. 

John  Forster,  Esq.,  58  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Chelsea :  Thursday  morning,  April  1849. 
Dear  Friend, — Your  Ganymede  found  me  yesterday  in  a  mortal 
crisis:  in  the  thick  of  two  afSictions,  which  put  together  did  not 
make  a  consolation.  In  the  first  place  I  had  got  one  of  my  patent 
headaches  to  do,  which  absolutely  could  not  be  put  off  any  longer; 
and  at  the  same  time  it  was  required  of  me  to  endure  the  infinite 
clatter  of  an  old  lady — clack,  clack,  clack,  like  pailfuls  of  water 
poured  all  over  me,  world  without  end.  Nevertheless  I  showed 
myself  to  Ganymede  for  a  moment,  and  bade  him  tell  you  heaven 
knows  what! — that  it  was  '  all  right,'  or  that  it  was  '  all  wrong,'  or 
perhaps  that  it  was  all  right  and  all  wrong  in  the  same  breath.  I 
did  not  know  what  I  was  saying.  Now  that  I  do,  thank  you  for 
the  books  and  the  veil  and  the  stick.  I  have  forwarded  your  note  to 
Sterling,  and  doubt  not  but  it  will  find  the  gracious  welcome  which 
it  deserves; — and  nothing  earthly  or  divine  shall  make  me  forget! 
Bless  you!  I  never  forget  anything,  except  now  and  then  my  veil, 
and,  always  and  for  ever,  the  multiplication  table!  I  have  never, 
for  example,  forgotten  a  single  one  of  all  the  kindnesses  you  have 
shown  me !  So  you  may  expect  us  on  Thursday,  as  far  as  depends 
on  me,  with  a  confidence  which  has  for  its  basis  the  laws  of  nature. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Cablyub. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  247 


LETTER  109. 


Poor  Helen's  Dublin  glories  ended  (the  second  year,  I  think^  in 
total  wreck— drink,  quarrel  with  her  fool  of  a  brother,  dismissal 
home  or  into  outer  darkness,  and  adieu  of  the  spitfire  kind!  From 
home  she  sent  inquiries  hither:  old  regrets,  new  alacrities,  &c.  &c. 
As  our  good  little  Anne  was  now  to  be  wedded,  and  go  to  Jersey 
•with  her  '  James '  (where  she  did  well,  but  died  in  a  couple  of 
5'ears.  poor  little  soul!),  we  were  glad  to  hear  of  Helen  again. 
Helen  came,  a  glad  sight  of  her  kind ;  to  my  eye  nothing  was 
wrong  in  her,  but  to  another  better  observer  (though  in  strict  si- 
lence towards  me)  much,  much !  Accordingly  before  long  strange 
faults  (even  theft,  to  appearance)  began  to  peer  out;  and,  after 
perhaps  four  or  live  months,  came  The  catastrophe  described  be- 
low! 

My  darling  took  all  pains  with  the  wretched  Helen;  got  her 
placed  once,  perhaps  twice,  candidly  testifying  to  qualities  and 
faults  alike  (drove  oft"  with  her  once  in  a  cab,  as  I  can  still  patheti- 
cally recollect  having  seen): — but  nothing  could  save  Helen!  She 
was  once,  as  we  heard,  dragged  from  the  river;  did  die,  an  out- 
cast, few  months  afterwards.  Naivety  and  even  geniality,— im- 
becility, obstinacy,  and  gin.  Her  '  sayings,'  as  reported  to  me  here, 
were  beyond  all  Jest-Books, — as  gold  beyond  pinchbeck. 

19  March,  1849,  Cromwell.— k.  Third  Edition  got  done  {i.e.  the 
]\IS.  &c.  copyoliV)  'this  morning.' — Printing  haggles  forward  till 
October  or  after.    Mrs.  Buller's  death  '  week  before,' 

To  Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Tuesday  night,  May  1849. 

My  dear  Jane,— Many  thanks  for  your  kind  letter  and  'dainties  '; 
these  I  only  realised  to-day— the  weather  having  been  bad:  and  my 
head  not  good,  and  no  carriage  turning  up  for  me  till  to-day.  I 
ate  a  little  piece  of  cake  so  soon  as  I  got  it  home,  and  pronounce  it 
first-rate;  the  marmalade  I  have  not  yet  broken  into. 

For  ourselves,  we  are  all  going  on  as  much  as  usual:  Mr.  C.  has 
not  got  reconciled  to  his  '  interior,'  nor  I  to  my  head,  with  which, 
indeed,  I  have  had  several  more  terrible  bouts  lately  than  ever  in 
my  life  before,  Vhich  is  much  to  say!  John  is  excessively  kind  to 
me  on  these  occasions;  has  sat  on  his  knees  at  my  bedside  for 
hours  together,  holding  me  dowu,  and  being  sorry  for  me,  which  is 
just  all  that  can  be  done  in  the  way  of  alleviation.  '  On  earth  the 
living  have  much  to  bear;'  the  difference  is  chiefly  in  the  manner 
of  bearing,  and  my  manner  of  bearing  is  far  from  being  the  best. 

They  would  tell  you  of  the  final  crash  of  my  maid  Helen,  how, 


348  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

on  our  return  from  a  visit  to  Captain  Sterling,'  she  first  would  not 
open  the  door;  and  at  last  did  open  it,  like  a  stage  ghost  very  ill 
got  up:  blood  spurting  from  her  lips,  her  face  w^hiteued  with  chalk 
from  the  kitchen  floor,  her  dark  gown  ditto,  and  wearing  a  smile 
of  idiotic  self-complacency.  I  thought  Mr.  C.  was  going  to  kick 
his  foot  through  her;  when  she  tumbled  down  at  his  touch.  If  she 
had  been  his  wife  he  certainly  would  have  killed  her  on  the  spot; 
but  his  maid-of  all-work  he  felt  could  not  be  got  rid  of  without  his 
being  liauged  for  her.  The  young  woman  whom  Providence  sent 
me  '  quite  promiscuously '  within  an  hour  of  this  consummation 
has  hitherto  given  us  the  greatest  satisfaction.  She  is  far  the  most 
lovable  servant  I  ever  had;  a  gentle,  pretty,  sweet-looking  crea- 
ture, with  innocent  winning  ways;  a  very  fair  worker  too,  clean, 
orderly,  and  '  up  to  her  business.'  ^  My  only  fear  about  her  is  that 
being  only  four-and-twenty,  and  calculated  to  produce  an  impres- 
sion on  the  other  sex,  she  may  weary  of  single  service;  unless  in- 
deed she  can  get  up  a  sentiment  for  the  butcher's  man,  who  is 
already  her  devoted  admirer;  but  '  he  is  so  desperately  ugly.' 

Meanwhile,  I  have  been  busy,  off  and  on,  for  a  great  many 
weeks  in  pasting  a  screen  with  four  leaves,  five  feet  high,  all  over 
with  prints.  It  will  be  a  charming  '  work  of  art '  when  finished, 
but  of  that  there  is  no  near  prospect.  The  prints  are  most  of  them 
very  small,  and  it  takes  so  much  pondering  to  find  how  to  scatter 
them  about  to  the  best  advantage.^  What  else  I  have  been  doing 
it  were  hard  to  tell.  I  read  very  little  nowadays;  not  that  ray  eyes 
are  failed  the  least  in  the  world,  but  that  books  have  ceased  to  take 
any  hold  on  me;  and  as  for  sewing,  you  know  that  '  being  an  only 
child,  I  never  wished  to  sew.'  Still,  I  have  some  inevitable  work 
in  that  line,  as,  even  if  I  felt  rich  enough  to  have  the  '  family 
needlework'  done  l)y  others,  I  don't  know  where  to  find  others  to 
do  it  for  money,  without  bothering  me  with  their  stupidity  worse 
than  if  I  did  it  myself.  But  the  great  business  of  life  for  a  woman 
like  me  in  this  place  is  an  eternal  writing  of  little  unavoidable 
notes.     It  falls  upon  me  to  answer  all  the  invitations,  and  make 

» 

»  February  1849. 

'  This  must  have  been  Elizabeth  Sprague,  from  Exeter,  a  high-going,  shin- 
ing kind  of  damsel,  who  did  very  well  for  about  two  years;  but  then,  hke 
most  of  the  genus,  went  away,  and  disappeared.  What  a  province  of  the 
'domesticities '  tliat  is  at  present!  Anarchic  exceedingly;  the  funnel-neck  of 
all  our  anarchies. 

3  Stands  here  to  this  day,  the  beautifullest  and  cleverest  screen  I  have  ever 
seen.    How  strange,  how  mournfully  affecting  to  me  now  I 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE,  249 

lying  excuses  world  without  end ;  so  that  I  sometimes  look  back 
with  the  tear  in  my  eye  to  the  time  when  we  were  not  celebrated, 
and  were  left  to  provide  our  own  dinners  as  we  could.  A  French 
poet  dying  of  hunger,  in  a  novel,  calls,  'Oh,  Glory,  give  me 
bread!'  I  would  call  to  Glory  often  enough,  'Give  me  repose!' 
only  that  I  know  beforehand  my  sole  response  from  Glory  would 
be,  '  Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it?  ' 

And  now,  dear,  the  sun  is  shining— has  actually  '  taken  a  notion ' 
of  shining  for  the  first  time  these  many  days;  and  I  have  need  to 
walk,  having  been  shut  up  lately  till  I  feel  quite  moulting.  And 
so  I  must  out  into  space. 

Love  to  your  husband  and  all  the  rest.  It  would  be  pretty  of 
you  to  write  to  me  sometimes;  for  I  am  always 

Very  affectionately  yours, 

Jake  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  110. 

Nothing  in  the  way  of  printing,  or  nothiug  in  the  least  considera- 
ble, had  come  from  me  since  '  Cromwell; '  but  much  was  ferment- 
ing in  me,  in  very  painful  ways,  during  four  years  of  silence. 
Irish  Repeal,  Paraclete,  McHale^  Irish  Industrial  Regiments,  news- 
paper articles  on  such,  &c.,  etc.,— trifling  growls,  words  idly  flung 
away.  In  the  fourth  or  third  year  especially,  in  the  revolutionary 
1848,  matters  had  got  to  a  kind  of  boiling  pitch  with  me,  and  I 
was  becoming  very  wretched  for  want  of  a  voice.  Much  MS.  was 
accumulating  on  me,  with  which  I  did  not  know  what  in  the  world 
to  do.  Nigger  (iuestiou  (end  of  1849)  did  get  out,  and  the  rest, 
vividly  enougli,  as  Latter-Day  Pamphlets  (next  spring)!  Mean- 
while, all  being  dark  and  dumb,  I  luid  decided  on  a  six-weeks' 
visit  to  Ireland  (Duffy,  &c.  much  pressing  me).  Record  of  the 
tour,  written  slapdash  after  my  return,  is  among  tlie  worthless  MSS. 
here.'    Emerson  had  now  left  Eugland  seven  or  eight  mouths. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Post  Office,  Duhlin. 

Addiscombe:  Sunday'  night,  July  2,  1849. 
Well!  it  is  a  consolation  of  a  sort  that  I  cannot  ligure  you  more 
cold  and  lonely  and  comfortless  there  at  sea  than  myself  has  been 
on  land,  even  amidst  '  the  splendid  blandishments'  of  Addiscombe. 
When  I  could  not  distinguish  your  white  hat  any  longer  I  went 
home,  and  .sat  down  to  cry  a  little;  but  Elizal)eth  put  a  stop  to 


»  These  Notes  were  given  by  Mr.  Carlyle  to  a  friend,  from  wlimii  lliey  passed 
into  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Sampson  Low  &  Co.,  and  were  published  by  that 
firm  in  the  spring  of  1882.— J.  A.  F. 

11* 


250  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

that  by  coming  in  with — your  plaid  over  her  arm!  and  expressing 
her  surprise  that  master  hadn't  talien  it.  The  plaid  forgotten,  and 
the  day  so  cold!  For  one  frantic  moment  I  was  for  running  back 
to  the  pier,  and  plunging  into  the  water  on  my  own  basis,  and 
swimming  after  you  with  the  plaid  in  my  mouth;  but  a  very  little 
reflection  turned  me  from  this  course,  and  instead  I  proceeded  to 
the  kitchen,  and  silently  boiled  my  strawberries,  like  a  practical 
woman.  Then  1  stowed  away  some  of  the  valuables,  and  dressed 
myself;  and,  no  one  having  come  for  my  portmanteau,  I  took  it 
with  me  in  the  omnibus  to  the  top  of  Sloane  Street,  where  I  had  it 
and  myself  transferred  to  a  cab,  for  greater  dignity's  sake!  I  was 
at  Bath  House  five  minutes  before  twelve,  shivering  with  cold,  ex- 
cessively low,  and  so  vexed  about  the  plaid!  But  'no  sympathy 
there,  thank  God!' — 'wits'  enough,  if  that  could  have  helped  me. 
'  You  would  have  the  sense  to  wrap  yourself  in  a  sail  if  you  were 
cold,'  or  '  Depend  upon  it,  you  would  seize  on  the  rugs  of  all  the 
other  passengers'  beds.  At  all  events,  you  had  promised  to  stay 
with  them  in  Scotland,  and  that  would  quite  set  you  up  if  you  had 
taken  cold ! '  Clearly,  I  must  '  come  out  of  that '  if  I  were  going  to 
do  any  good ;  and  I  did,  to  appearance ;  but  all  day  I  was  fancying 
you  shivering,  like  myself.  We  came  here  in  the  open  carriage, 
having  picked  up  Miss  Farrar  and  Blanche.  And  here  there  was 
neither  fire  nor  sun  to  warm  one.  We  were  taken  to  the  dairy  to 
lunch  on  cold  milk  and  bread  from  the  cold  stone  tables;  and  then 
to  the  hay-fleld  to  sit  on  cold  hay-cocks ;  and  a  very  large  cold  pad- 
dock' jumped  up  my  leg,  good  God!  and  'it  was  a  bad  joy!' 
The  dinner,  at  six,  put  me  a  little  to  rights ;  and  I  felt  still  better 
when  we  had  put  a  lucifer  to  some  sticks  in  the  grate.  At  eleven 
we  went  to  bed ;  '  and  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first 
day!' 

To-day,  Lord  Bath  and  Bingham  Mildmay  arrived  to  breakfast; 
Milnes  and  Poodle  an  hour  later.  It  has  been  a  warm,  fresh-blow- 
ing day,  and  spent  almost  entirely  out  of  doors,  sitting  about  the 
swing,  tumbling  amongst  the  hay,  walking  and  driving  till  eight, 
when  we  dined.  And  after  that,  very  youthful  and  uproarious 
sports  till  twelve!  I  have  written  this  much  since  coming  up  to 
bed.  There  is  no  more  paper  in  my  book;  so  I  will  now  go  to  bed, 
and  finish  at  Chelsea.  I  hope  it  has  been  as  warm  on  the  sea. 
Blanche has  confided  to  me  all  the  secrets  of  her  heart — her 


^  Scotch  for  frog. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  251 

ideas  about  her  father  and  mother  and  sisters  and  lovers — and 
wishes  me  to  save  her  soul! 

We  are  to  dine  here  before  starting,  and  if  I  do  not  send  my  letter 
till  we  get  to  London,  there  may  be  none  at  the  post-office'  when 
3'ou  first  call ;  and  that  would  be  vexatious.  But  there  is  no  time 
or  composure  here  by  day  for  writing,  so  this  must  go  as  it  is. 

We  have  been  iu  the  Archbisliop's  grounds  for  three  hours.  The 
men  are  all  gone  back  to  town,  except  Lord  Bath,  who  is  at  this 
moment  singing  with  Blanche  under  my  window,  distracting  me 
worse  than  a  barrel-organ.  Good  Heavens!  What  tearing  spirits 
everybody  is  in! 

The  note  from  Davis  ^  came  before  I  left.  I  did  not  leave  my 
address,  so  I  don't  know  what  others  may  have  come;  one  to  you 
from  Neuberg  I  left  behind.  I  ought  to  acknowledge  with  thank- 
fulness that  I  have  been  less  sick  since  I  came.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I 
heard  of  your  safe  delivery  out  of  that  ship! 

Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 
LETTER  111. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Imperial  Hotel,  Dublin,  Ireland. 

Chelsea :  Thursday,  July  5, 1849. 

I  am  so  glad  of  your  letter  this  morning!  after  Miss  Wynn's  non- 
sensical preparation,  I  could  not  feel  at  all  sure.  It  sounds  bad 
enough,  but  it  might  have  been  worse:  'kept  at  sea  double  the 
time,'  and  '  short  of  provisions; ' — that  would  have  been  a  go! 

I  am  very  busy  to-day,  having  written  to  ]\Ir.  Neuberg  that  the 
last  wild  goose  will  alight  at  him  on  Monday,^  and  having  a  world 
of  things  to  do  in  the  meantime.  And  so  I  must  be  brief;  better 
perhaps  I  let  alone  writing  altogether,  but  then  you  might  be 
'vaixed.'  Hitherto  my  time  has  been  chiefly  taken  up  by  people. 
Anthony  Sterling  came  while  I  was  at  tea,  and  presently  after, 
Masson  and  Mr.  Russell  ■*  from  Edinburgh ;  each  of  these  gentlemen 
drank  four  cups  of  tea!  I  talked  a  great  deal,  having  all  the  re- 
sponsibility to  myself,  and  'made  so  many  wits'*  for  them  that 

» In  Dublin. 

'  One  of  Robson's  printers;  did  the  '  Lists,'  &c.,  in  Cromwell;  a  very  supe- 
rior kind  of  man. 

3  Neuberf?,  with  liis  sister,  then  in  Nottingham;  my  poor  pilgrim  on  the  road 
thither,  as  her  firet  stage. 

*  Son  of  surgery  professor,  ended  very  tragically  long  after. 

'  BOlte's  phrase. 


253  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Anthony  bolted  oflf  at  nine,  and  the  others  stayed  till  eleven,  evi- 
dently quite  charmed  with  me — so  differently  do  '  wits '  act  upon 
different  characters!  Yesterday  I  rose  witli  a  headache,  the  penalty 
of  all  that  cleverness ;  but  cold  water  and  coffee  staved  it  off. 

Having  made  an  inventory  of  the  plate,  and  packed  it  to  be  sent 
to  Batli  House,  I  went  out  and  transacted  a  variety  of  small  affairs; 
dined  very  slightly  in  a  confectioner's  shop — Blanche  and  Miss  Far- 
rar  having  insisted  on  coming  to  tea  with  me  at  five  o'clock! — and 
was  home  just  in  time  to  receive  them. 

No  such  '  everlasting  frieudshiiJ '  has  been  sworn  to  me  these 
thirty  years  as  this  of  Blanche's!  She  flings  herself  on  my  neclj, 
begs  me  to  call  her  Blanche,  says  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  '  Oh !  does 
not  everyone  love  you? '  protests  that  she  'would  like  to  stay  with 
me  for  ever;'  and  in  fact  embarrasses  me  considerably  with  a  sort 
of  thing  I  have  been  quite  out  of  these  many  years.  While  we  were 
at  tea  (and  these  girls  too  had  each  four  cups!  with  cakes  and  bread- 
and-butter  in  proportion),  up  drove  Lady  Ashburton,  which  was 
great  fun  for  all  parties.  She  was  in  '  tearing  spirits,'  and  so  were 
■we  by  that  time ;  and  the  racket  that  followed  for  the  next  hour 
and  half  was  what  Forster  '  might  have  called  '  stupendous!  Great 
God! '  She  said  my  picture  was  the  horridest  thing  she  had  ever 
seen,  'like,  but  so  disagreeably  like,  exactly  reminding  one  of  a 

poor  old  starved  rabbit! '    I  suppose  she  has  criticised  it  to  N , 

for  he  has  sent  to  beg  I  will  give  'one  more  '  sitting;  very  incon- 
venient just  now,  but  I  promised  to  go  to-morrow.  Lord  A.  was  to 
return  last  night,  feeling  a  return  of  his  gout,  and  wishing  to  be 
near  Fergusson.  My  party  dismissed  in  good  time.  Lady  A.  went 
at  eight  '  to  dress  for  a  party  at  Lady  Waldegrave's; '  the  girls  about 
nine,  'to  dress  for  a  ball  at  Lady  Wilton's.'  I  walked  to  the  cab- 
stand with  them ; — devoutly  imagined  to  go  on  and  ask  for  Mrs. 
Chorley,  but  was  too  tired;  so  I  read  the  new  'Copperfield,'  being 
up  to  nothing  else,  and  went  to  bed  between  ten  and  eleven.  Had 
again  talked  too  much  for  sleep,  and  again  rose  with  a  headache, 
Which  again  yielded  to  cold  water  and  '  determination  of  character.' 

God  bless  you  ever. 

Yours, 

Jane  C. 

1  John,  of  the  Examiner,  &c.  &c. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  253 

LETTER  113. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  at  Oalway. 

Beni-ydden :  Friday,  July  20,  1849. 

Oh,  my  dear,  I  have  been  '  packed ! '  The  Doctor  proposed  to 
'  pack '  me  lor  courtesy,  and  I,  for  curiosity,  accepted.  So  at  six  in 
the  morning,  just  when  I  had  fallen  into  sound  sleep,  I  was  roused 
by  a  bath-woman  coming  to  ray  bedside,  in  a  huge  white  flannel 
gow^n,  and  bidding  me  turn  out.  I  got  on  to  the  floor  in  a  very  be- 
wildered state,  and  she  proceeded  to  double  back  one  half  of  my 
bed  clothes  and  feather-bed,  spread  a  pair  of  blankets  on  the 
mattress,  then  a  sheet  wrung  out  of  cold  water;  then  bade  me 
strip  and  lie  down.  I  lay  down,  and  she  swathed  me  with  the 
wet  sheet  like  a  mummy;  then  swathed  me  with  the  blankets, 
my  arms  pinioned  down,  exactly,  in  fact,  like  a  mummy;  then 
rolled  back  the  feather-bed  and  original  bed-clothes  on  the  top 
of  me,  leaving  out  the  head ;  and  so  left  me,  for  an  hour,  to  go  mad 
at  my  leisure!  I  had  no  sooner  fairly  realised  my  situation  of  being 
bound  hand  and  foot  under  a  heap  of  things,  than  I  felt  quite 
frantic,  cursed  my  foolish  curiosity,  and  made  horrid  efforts  to  re- 
lease myself;  thought  of  rolling  to  the  bell,  and  ringing  it  with  my 
teeth,  but  could  not  shake  ofE  the  feather-bed;  did  ultimately  get 
one  of  my  hands  turned  round,  and  was  thankful  for  even  that 
change  of  posture.  Dr.  Nicol  says  the  bath-woman  should  have 
stayed  with  me  during  the  first  '  pack,'  and  put  a  wet  cloth  on  my 
head;  that  it  was  the  blood  being  sent  to  my  head  that  'caused  all 
this  wildncss.'  Whatever  it  was,  I  would  not  undergo  the  thing 
again  for  a  himdred  guineas.  When  the  bath-woman  came  back  at 
seven,  I  ordered  her  to  take  me  out  instantly.  '  But  tlie  doctor? ' 
The  doctor,  I  told  her,  had  no  business  with  me,  I  was  not  a  patient. 
'  Oh!  then  you  have  only  been  packed  for  foon,  have  you?'  'Yes; 
and  very  bad  fun!'  So  she  filled  a  slipper-bath  to  'put  me  to 
rights,'  and  I  plunged  into  that  so  soon  as  I  was  set  loose,  and  she 
splashed  pitcher  after  pitcher  full  of  water  on  my  head.  And  this 
shall  be  the  last  of  my  water-curing,  for  the  present.  I  feel  quite 
shattered  still,  with  an  incipient  lieadache,  and  am  wishing  that 
Forster  would  come,  and  take  us  back  to  Rawdon. 

I  suppose  Forster  has  sent  you  a  Bradford  paper  containing  the 
report  of  our  meeting  for '  Roman  Liberty.'  It  went  off  very  success- 
fully as  a  meeting;  butdidnotl)ringin  toForsterali  the  '  virtue'sown 


254  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

reward '  he  anticipated,  and  he  was  out  of  humour  for  tweniy-four 
hours  after.  In  fact,  the  Bradford  gentlemen  on  the  platform  were 
like  Bess  Stodart's  legs,  'no  great  things.'  But  the  Bradford  men, 
filling  the  hall  to  suffocation,  were  a  sight  to  see!  to  cry  over,  'if 
one  liked '  such  ardent,  earnest,  half-intelligent,  half-bewildered 
countenance,  as  made  me,  for  the  time  being,  almost  into  a  friend 
of  the  species  and  advocate  for  fusion  de  Mens. '  And  I  must  tell 
you  'I  aye  thocht  meikle  o'  you,'  but  that  night  I  'thocht  mair  o' 
you  than  eve.'  ^  A  man  of  the  people  mounted  the  platform,  and 
spoke; — a  youngish,  intelligent-looking  man,  who  alone,  of  all  the 
speakers,  seemed  to  understand  the  question,  and  to  have  feelings 
as  well  as  notions  about  it.  He  spoke  with  a  heart-eloquence  that 
'  left  me  warm.'  I  never  was  more  affected  by  public  speaking. 
Wlien  he  ceased  I  did  not  throw  myself  on  his  neck,  and  swear 
everlasting  friendship;  but,  I  assure  you,  it  was  in  putting  con- 
straint on  myself  that  I  merely  started  to  my  feet,  and  shook  hands 
with  him.  Then  'a  sudden  thought '  struck  me:  this  man  would 
like  to  know  you;  I  would  give  him  my  address  in  London.  I 
borrowed  a  pencil  and  piece  of  paper,  and  handed  him  my  address. 
When  he  looked  at  it,  he  started  as  if  I  had  sent  a  bullet  into  him 
— caught  my  hand  again,  almost  squeezed  it  to  '  immortal  smash,' 
and  said,  '  Oh,  it  is  your  husband  !  Mr.  Carlyle  has  been  my 
teacher  and  master!  I  have  owed  everything  to  him  for  years  and 
years!'  I  felt  it  a  credit  to  you  really  to  have  had  a  hand  in  turn- 
ing out  this  man ; — was  prouder  of  that  heart-tribute  to  your  genius 
than  any  amount  of  reviewer-praises,  or  aristocratic  invitations  to 
dinner.  Forster  had  him  to  breakfast  next  morning.  I  shall  have 
plenty  of  things  to  tell  you  when  we  meet  at  leisure,  if  I  can  only 
keep  them  in  mind ;  but  in  this  wandering  Jew  life  I  feel  no  time 
on  hand,  even  for  going  into  particulars. 

To-day  I  am  pretty  well  finished  off,  for  all  practical  purposes, 
by  that  confounded  pack.  My  head  is  getting  every  moment  hot- 
ter and  heavier;  and  the  best  I  can  do  is  to  get  out  on  the  hillside, 
and  think  of  nothing!  Lucas's^  father  and  sister  are  here:  genteel 
Quakerly  people — very  lean. 

After  Monday,  address  to  Auchtertool  Manse,  Kirkcaldy.  I  wish 
to  heaven  I  were  fairly  there.  I  could  almost  lose  heart,  and  turn, 
and  go  back  to  London;  but  I  will  go:  as  I  used  to  say  when  a 

'  The  St.  Simonian  recipe. 

2  John  Brown's  widow  (of  her  murdered  husband)  to  Claverhouse's  soldiers. 

5  Catholic  editor,  Irish  M.P.,  poor  soul! 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  255 

little  child,  and  they  asked  if  auythiug  was  too  hard  for  me,  'Me 
can  do  what  me's  bid.'  The  difficulty  is  still  chiefly  to  bid  my- 
self—and I  have  bid  myself  go  to  Scotland.  Mrs.  Paulet  is  asleep 
on  a  sofa  beside  me,  so  young  and  pretty  and  happy-looking;  I 
wonder  at  her. 

God  bless  you,  dear.  "When  I  have  '  some  reasonably  good  leis- 
ure' •  again,  I  will  write  you  better  letters;  and  more  legible  ones 
when  I  get  a  decent  pen.  If  you  saw  the  stump  I  am  writing  with, 
you  would  be  filled  with  admiration  of  my  superiority  to  circum- 
stances, God  bless  you!  All  to  be  said  worth  the  saying  lies  in 
that  Your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  C. 

LETTER  113. 

Of  Irish  journey,  summer  1849, 1  think  there  is  the  rough  jotting  '■' 
hastily  done  after  my  return  home.  In  defect  of  that,  or  in  supple- 
ment to  that,  here  are  some  dates: 

August  6,  7.— Miserable  puddle  of  a  night;  disembarked  at  Glas- 
gow; ditto  day  there,  and  second  night  with  David  Hope— last  time 
I  saw  him.  My  Jane  at  Auchtertool  (manse,  with  cousin).  I  run 
for  Scotsbrig  and  its  shelter  first.  Remember  Ecclefechan  station 
and  my  parting  with  W.  E.  Forster  there. 

August  27. — Tlirough  Kirkcaldy  or  Auchtertool  for  some  days,  we 
(Jane^  last  and  probably  first  time)  arrive  at  Linlathen,  where  I 
leave  lier  intending  for  Haddington.  Three  days  with  tlie  Donald- 
sons (three  old  ladies,  dear  friends  of  Dr.  Welsh's  family  in  early 
days),  thence  to  Scotsbrig,  and  set  out  with  Farie  to  Perth,  intend- 
ing for  Glen  Truin  (Spey  side)  and  the  Ashburtous.  There  about 
a  fortnight.  Crowded,  gypsy  existence;  everywhere  chaos,  and 
rest  fled  wliither?  Towards  Scotsbrig  and  way  home,  September 
14  at  Edinljurgh.  See  Jeffrey  drearily,  mournfully,  for  the  last 
time  (next  spring  he  died).  Not  till  last  week  of  September  get 
liome,  my  poor,  heavy-laden  Jane,  from  Liverpool  a  few  days  be- 
fore, w^aitiiig  for  me  with  her  sad  but  welcome  face— Ay  de  mi! 
— towards  wliat  a  three  months  of  excursion  had  we  treated  our- 
selves !  Physically  and  spiritually  don't  remember  to  have  ever  suf- 
fered more.  I  had  never  any  health  for  touring.  I  should  have 
slayeil  at  home  had  not,  indeed,  my  '  home'  been  London,  with  its 
summer  torments!  'Latter-Day  Pamphlets'  now  close  ahead. — 
T.  C. 

To  T.  Carlyle  {Oalway,  Sligo;  had  followed  me  to)  Scotsbrig. 

3  Haddington:  Thursday  morning,  July  26,  1849. 
My  dear  dear, — I  wrote  you  a  long,  very  long,  letter  last  night  at 
midnight  from  this  same  place.     But  tliis  morning,  instead  of  put- 

1  Cromwell.  "  See  p.  249. 

3  Mrs.  ("ai-lyle  had  gone  to  Haddington  for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage 
twenty-three  years  before.— J.  A.  F. 


256  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

ting  it  in  the  post-office,  I  have  torn  it  up.  You  may  fancy  what 
sort  of  a  lettei",  '  all  about  feelings  (as  Lady  A.  would  say),  an  excit- 
able character  like  me  would  write  in  such  circumstances,  after  a 
long  railway  journey,  and  a  three  hours'  pilgrimage  all  up  and  down, 
and  across  and  round  about  Haddington.  And  you  can  also  un- 
derstand how,  after  some  hours  of  sleep,  I  should  have  reacted 
against  my  last  night's  self,  and  thought  all  that  steam  best  gathered 
back  into  the  vale  of  silence.  I  have  now  only  time  to  write  the 
briefest  of  notes;  but  a  blessing  from  here  I  must  send  you;  to  no 
other  mortal  would  I,  or  indeed  could  I,  write  from  this  place  at 
this  moment;  but  it  comes  natural  to  me  to  direct  a  letter  to  you 
here,  and  that  is  still  something,  is  it  not? 

I  will  give  you  all  my  news  so  soon  as  I  have  slept  a  night  at 
Auchtertool.  I  expect  Walter  and  Jeannie  will  meet  me  at  the 
station  in  Edinburgh,  where  I  shall  be  at  a  quarter  after  twelve.  I 
am  not  too  much  tired ;  my  journey  has  been  made  as  easy  for  me 
as  possible.  From  Rawdon  to  Morpeth  on  Tuesday,  William  Ed- 
ward most  kindly  accompanying  me  there,  and  seeing  me  off  next 
day.  'I  looked  so  horribly  helpless,' he  said,  'that  he  could  not 
reconcile  it  to  his  conscience  to  leave  me  a  chance  at  losing  my- 
self.'   ■ 

I  was  wandering  about  till  after  dark  last  night,  and  out  again 
this  morning  at  six ;  but  I  must  leave  all  particulars  till  a  more  lei- 
sure moment,  and  till  my  heart  is  calmer  than  at  present.  I  am  so 
glad  I  came  here  on  this  incognito  principle.  It  is  the  only  way  in 
Which  I  could  have  got  any  good  of  the  dear  old  place.  God  bless 
it!     How  changed  it  is,  and  how  changed  am  I  !    But  enough  just 

now. 

Ever  your  affectionate, 

Jeannie  Welsh. 

Oil  !  what  a  letter,  what  a  letter,  to  read  again  now !  (May  27, 
1869.) 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

This  is  a  very  interesting  little  narrative,  discovered  by  me  the 
other  day;  I  had  never  heard  of  it  before.  The  '  Forster  '  mentioned 
in  it  is  William  Edward  Forster,  now  M.P.  for  Bradford,  conspicu- 
ous in  various,  to  me,  rather  questionable  ways — Nigger-Emanci- 
pator, Radical  Patriot,  »&c.,  &c. ;  at  that  time  an  enthusiastic  young 
'  Wet-Quaker '  (had  been  introduced  to  me  by  Sterling),  full  of 
cheerj'  talk  and  speculation,  and  well  liked  by  both  of  us  till  then. 
I  was  in  Ireland,  travelling  about,  mainly  with  Duffy  (so  far  as 
not  alone)  in  those  weeks.     Forster  on  quitting  her  at  Morpeth  (as 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  257 

mentioned  within)  shot  off  for  Ireland,  and  in  the  very  nick  of  the 
moment,  the  next  Sunday  moruinu',  intersected  Duffy  and  me  at 
Castlebar  (Westport,  south-west  region)  just  in  the  act  of  starting 
northward ;  sprang  upon  the  car  along  with  us,  and  was  of  tlie  party 
till  it  ended  (at  Ec^clefechan,  through  Derry  and  Glasgow,  Forster's 
and  my  part  of  it),  after  which  I  have  seen  very  little  of  him,  nor 
did  she  more.— T.  C.  August  3,  1866. 

On  Tuesday,  July  24,  1849,  I  left  Rawdon '  after  breakfast,  and 
at  five  of  the  afternoon  reached  Morpeth,  where  I  bad  decided  to 
pass  the  i>ight.  William  Forster  escorted  me  thus  far,  and  stayed 
to  start  me  by  the  two  o'clock  train  next  day,  out  of  purest 
charity,  having  adopted  Donovan's  ^  theory  of  me,  that  I  am 
wholly  without  observing  faculty,  with  large  reflectiveness  turned 
inward;  a  sort  of  woman,  that,  ill-adapted  for  travelling  by  railway 
alone,  with  two  boxes,  a  writing-case  and  carpet-bag.  Anyhow, 
I  was  much  the  better  of  such  a  cheerful  companion  to  stave  off 
the  nervousness  about  Haddington,  uot  to  speak  of  the  material 
comforts— a  rousing  fire,  brandy-negus,  &c.— which  he  ordered  for 
me  at  the  inn,  and  which  I  should  not  have  had  the  audacity  to 
order  on  my  own  basis. 

After  a  modest  dinner  of  chops  and  cherry-tart,  we  walked  T)y 
the  river-side  in  a  drizzling  rain  (that  was  at  my  suggestion);  then 
back  to  the  '  Phamix '  for  tea,  chess,  and  speculative  talk  till  mid- 
night; when  I  went  to  bed,  expecting  no  sleep  to  speak  of,  and  of 
course  slept  unusually  well;  for  the  surest  way  to  get  a  thing  in 
this  life  is  to  be  prepared  for  doing  without  it,  to  the  exclusion 
even  of  hope. 

Next  morning  was  bright  as  diamonds,  and  we  walked  all  about 
the  town  and  neighbouring  heights;  Avhere,  rendered  unusually 
communicative  by  our  isolated  position,  I  informed  William  Ed- 
ward that  my  maternal  grandmother  was  '  descended  from  a  gang 
of  gipsies;'  was  in  fact  grand-niece  to  Matthew  Raillie  who  'suf- 
fered at  Lanark,'  that  is  to  say  was  hanged  tliere.  A  genealogical 
fact,  Forster  said,  wliicli  made  me  at  last  intelligible  for  him,  'a 
cross  betwixt  John  Knox  and  a  gipsy,  how  that  explained  all ! '  By 
the  way,  my  uncle  has  told  me  since  I  came  here  that  the  wife  of 
that  Matthew  Baillie,  Margaret  Euston  by  name,  was  the  original 
of  Sir  W.  Scott's  '  Meg  Merrilies.'  Matthew  himself  was  the  last  of 
gipsies;  could  steal  a  horse  from  under  the  owner  if  he  liked,  but 


'  Near  Bradford,  Yorkshire. 

'  A  quack  physiognomist,  &c.,  of  the  time. 


258  LETTERS  AND   MEMORIALS  OF 

left  always  the  saddle  and  bridle;  a  thorough  gentleman  in  his  way 
and  six  feet  four  in  stature ! 

But  to  go  back  to  Morpeth :  we  again  dined  at  the  '  Phoenix  ' ;  then 
Forster  put  me  into  my  carriage,  and  uiy  luggage  into  the  van,  and 
I  was  shot  ofE  towards  Scotland,  while  himself  took  train  for  Ire- 
land. 

From  Morpeth  to  Haddington  is  a  journey  of  only  four  hours; 
again  '  the  wished-f or  come  too  late ! ' — rapidest  travelling  to  Scot- 
land now,  and  no  home  there  any  more!  The  first  localitj'  I  recog- 
nised was  the  Peer  Bridge ;  I  had  been  there  once  before,  a  little 
child,  in  a  post-chaise  wiih  my  father;  he  had  held  his  arm  round 
me  while  I  looked  down  the  ravine.  It  was  my  first  sight  of  the 
picturesque  that.  I  recognised  the  place  even  in  passing  it  at  rail- 
way speed,  after  all  these  long,  long  years. 

At  the  Dunbar  station  an  old  lady  in  widow's  dress,  and  a  young 
one,  her  daughter,  got  into  the  carriage,  which  I  had  had  so  far  all 
to  myself;  a  man  in  yeomanry  uniform  waiting  to  see  them  oflE. 
'  Ye'll  maybe  come  and  see  us  the  morn's  nicht? '  said  the  younger 
lady  from  the  carriage.  'What  for  did  ye  no  come  to  the  ball?' 
answered  the  yeoman,  with  a  look  '  to  split  a  pitcher.'  The  young 
lady  tchick-tchicked,  and  looked  deprecatingly,  and  tried  again  and 
again  to  enchain  conversation ;  but  to  everything  she  said  came  the 
same  answer — '  What  for  did  j'e  no  come  to  the  ball? '  The  poor 
young  lady  then  tried  holding  her  tongue;  her  lover  (only  her  lover 
would  have  used  her  so  brutally)  did  the  same ;  but  rested  his  chin 
on  the  carriage  window  to  scowl  at  her  with  more  convenience. 
The  interest  was  rising;  but  one  could  see  who  of  them  would 
speak  first.  'Oh! 'broke  out  the  young  lady,  'I'm  just  mourn- 
ing! '  '  What  for?  '  '  Oh,  just  that  ball ! '  '  What  for  then  did  ye 
no  come?'  growled  the  repeating  decimal;  '  I  waited  an  oor  for 
ye ! '  and  he  got  his  upper  lip  over  the  strap  of  his  cap  and  champed 
it — like  a  horse!  Squeal  went  the  engine;  we  were  off;  the  young 
lady  '  just  mourned '  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  fell  to  talking  with 
her  mother.  For  me,  I  reflected  how  '  the  feelings  were  just  the 
same  there  as  here,' '  and  the  Devil  everywhere  busy!  Before  the 
ladies  got  out  at  Drem  I  had  identified  the  pale,  old,  shrivelled 
widow  with  a  bu.vom,  bright-eyed,  rosj^  Mrs.  Frank  Sheriff  of  my 
time.  The  daughter  had  not  only  grown  up  but  got  herself  born 
in  the  interval.  What  chiefly  struck  me,  however — indeed  con- 
founded me — was  to  be  stared  at  by  Mrs.  Sheriff  as  a  stranger  or 

1  My  mother,  on  reading  Wilhelm  Meister, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  259 

even  foreigner!  for,  when  I  asked  her  some  question  about  tbe  road, 
she  answered  with  that  compassionate  distinctness  which  one  puts 
on  with  only  foreigners  or  idiots.  I  began  to  think  my  precautions 
for  keeping  incognito  in  my  native  place  might  turn  out  to  have 
been  superfluous.  One  of  these  precautions  had  the  foolishest  little 
consequence.  In  leaving  London,  I  had  written  the  addresses  for 
my  luggage  on  the  backs  of  other  people's  visiting-cards,  '  without 
respect  of  persons  ' — a  stupid  practice  when  one  thinks  of  it! — but 
at  Morpeth  I  removed  three  of  the  cards,  leaving  one  to  the  carpet- 
bag, carpet-bags  being  so  confoundable.  I  was  at  the  pains,  how- 
ever, to  rub  off  my  own  name  from  that  card,  which,  for  the  rest, 
happened  to  be  Mrs.  Humphrey  St.  John  Mildmay's.  Well,  at 
Longniddry,  where  I  had  to  w-ait  some  fifteen  minutes  for  the 
cross-train  to  Haddington,  'there  came  to  pass  '  a  porter!  who 
helped  me  with  my  things,  and  would  not  leave  off  helping  me, 
quite  teased  me  in  fact  with  delicate  attentions.  At  last  he  made 
me  a  low  bow  and  said  he  was  '  not  aware  that  any  of  the  family 
were  in  this  quarter.'  I  believe  I  answered,  'Quite  well,  I  thank 
von ;'  for  I  was  getting  every  instant  more  excited  with  my  circum- 
stances. He  shut  the  carriage-door  on  me,  then  opened  it  again 
and  said,  with  another  low  bow,  '  Excuse  me,  ma'am;  but  I  was  in 
the  service  of  the  brother  of  Mr  Humphrey  St.  John  Mildmay.'  I 
am  positive  as  to  my  answer  this  time,  that  it  was,  '  Oh,  thank  you! 
— no,  I  am  quite  another  person ! ' 

A  few  minutes  more  and  I  was  at  the  Haddington  station,  where 
I  looked  out  timidly,  then  more  boldly,  as  my  senses  took  in  the 
utter  strangeness  of  the  scene;  and  luckily  I  had  '  the  cares  of  lug- 
gage '  to  keep  down  sentiment  for  the  moment.  No  vehicle  was  in 
waiting  but  a  dusty  little  omnibus,  licensed  to  carry  any  number, 
it  seemed;  for,  on  remarking  there  was  no  seat  for  me,  I  was  told 
by  all  theinsides  in  a  breath,  'Never  heed!  come  in!  that  makes 
no  difference!'  And  so  I  was  trundled  to  the  'George  Inn,' 
where  a  landlord  and  waiter,  both  strangers  to  me,  and  looking 
half-asleep,  showed  me  to  the  best  room  on  the  first  floor,  a  large, 
old-fasliioned,  tlircc-windowed  room,  looking  out  on  the  Fore 
Street,  and,  without  having  spoken  one  word,  shut  the  door  on  me, 
and  there  I  was  at  the  end  of  it!  Actually  in  the  '  George  Inn,' 
Haddington,  alone,  amidst  the  silence  of  death! 

I  sat  down  quite  composedly  at  a  window,  and  looked  up  the 
street  towards  our  old  house.  It  was  the  same  street,  the  same 
houses;  but  so  silent,  dead  petrified!    It  looked  the  old  place  just 


260  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

as  I  had  seen  it  at  Chelsea  in  my  dreams,  only  more  dream -like! 
Having  exhausted  that  outlook,  I  rang  my  bell,  and  told  the  silent 
landlord  to  bring  tea  and  take  order  about  my  bedroom.  The  tea 
swallowed  down,  I  notified  my  wish  to  view  '  the  old  clmrch  there,' 
and  the  keeper  of  the  keys  was  immediately  fetched  me.  In  my 
part  of  Stranger  in  search  of  the  Picturesque,  I  let  myself  be  shown 
the  way  which  I  knew  every  inch  of,  shown  '  the  school-house ' 
where  myself  had  been  Dux,  'theplaygrouud,' '  the  boolin'  green,' 
and  so  on  to  the  church  gate;  which,  so  soon  as  my  guide  had 
unlocked  for  me,  I  told  him  he  might  wait,  that  I  needed  him  no 
further. 

The  churchyard  had  become  very  full  of  graves;  within  the  ruin 
were  two  new  smartly  got-up  tombs.  His^  looked  old,  old;  was 
surrounded  by  nettles:  the  inscription  all  over  moss,  except  two 
lines  which  had  been  quite  recently  cleared — by  whom?  Who  had 
been  there  before  me,  still  caring  for  his  tomb  after  twenty-nine 
years?  The  old  ruin  knew,  and  could  not  tell  me.  That  place  felt 
the  very  centre  of  eternal  silence — silence  and  sadness  world  with- 
out end!  When  I  returned,  the  sexton,  or  whatever  he  was,  asked, 
'  Would  I  not  walk  through  the  church? '  I  said  '  Yes,'  and  he  led 
the  way,  but  without  playing  the  cicerone  any  more:  he  had  become 
pretty  sure  there  was  no  need.  Our  pew  looked  to  have  never  been 
new-lined  since  we  occupied  it;  the  green  cloth  was  become  all  but 
white  from  age!  I  looked  at  it  in  the  dim  twilight  till  I  almost 
fancied  I  saw  my  beautiful  mother  in  her  old  corner,  and  myself,  a 
bright-looking  girl,  in  the  other!  It  w^as  time  to  'come  out  of 
that! '  Meaning  to  return  to  the  churchyard  next  morning,  to  clear 
the  moss  from  the  inscription,  I  asked  my  conductor  where  he  lived 
— with  his  key.  '  Next  door  to  the  house  that  was  Dr.  Welsh's '  he 
answered,  with  a  sharp  glance  at  my  face;  then  added  gently, 
'Excuse  me,  me'm,  for  mentioning  that,  but  the  minute  I  set  eyes 
on  ye  at  the  "George,"  I  jaloosed  it  was  her  we  all  looked  after 
whenever  she  went  up  or  down .'  '  You  won't  tell  of  me?  '  I  said, 
crying,  like  a  child  caught  stealing  apples;  and  gave  him  half-a- 
crown  to  keep  my  secret,  and  open  the  gate  for  me  at  eight  next 
morning.  Then,  turning  up  the  waterside  by  myself,  I  made  the 
circuit  of  the  Haugh,  Dodds's  Gardens  and  Babbie's  Butts,  the  cus- 
tomary evening  Avalk  in  my  teens;  and  except  that  it  was  perfectly 
solitary  (in  the  whole  round  I  met  just  two  little  children  walking 
hand  in  hand,  like  the  Babes  of  the  Wood)  the  whole  thing  looked 

1  Her  father's. 


JANE  WELSH  CAllLYLE.  261 

exactly  as  I  left  it  tweuty-three  years  back ;  the  very  puddles  made 
by  the  last  raiii  I  felt  to  have  stepped  over  before.  But  where  were 
all  the  living  beings  one  used  to  meet?  What  could  have  come  to 
the  place  to  strilie  it  so  dead?  I  have  been  since  answered— the 
railway  had  come  to  it,  and  ruined  it.  At  all  rates  'it  must  have 
taken  a  great  deal  to  make  a  place  so  dull  as  that!'  Leaving  the 
lanes,  I  now  went  boldly  through  the  streets,  the  thick  black  veil, 
put  on  for  the  occasion,  thrown  back;  I  was  getting  confident  that 
I  miglit  have  ridden  like  the  Lady  Godiva  through  Haddington, 
with  impunity,  so  far  as  recognition  went.  I  looked  through  the 
sparred  door  of  our  old  coach-house,  which  seemed  to  be  vacant; 
the  house  itself  I  left  over  till  morning,  when  its  occupants  should 
be  asleep.  Passing  a  cooper's  shop,  which  I  had  once  had  the  run 
of,  I  ste[)t  in  and  bought  two  little  quaighs;  then  in  the  character 
of  travelling  Englishwoman,  suddenly  seized  with  an  unaccountable 
passion  for  wooden  dishes,  I  questioned  the  cooper  as  to  the  past 
and  present  of  his  town.  He  was  the  very  man  for  me,  being 
ready  to  talk  the  tongue  small  in  his  head  about  his  town's-folks — 
men,  women,  and  children  of  them.  He  told  me,  amongst  other 
interesting  tilings,  '  Doctor  Welsh's  death  was  the  sorest  loss  ever 
came  to  the  place,'  that  myself  '  went  away  into  England  and— died 
there!'  adding  a  handsome  enough  tribute  to  my  memory  'Yes! 
Miss  Welsh!  he  remembered  her  famously,  used  to  tliink  her  the 
tastiest  yoiuig  lady  in  the  Avhole  place;  but  she  was  very — not  just 
to  call  proud — very  reserved  in  her  company.'  In  leaving  this  man 
I  felt  more  than  ever  like  my  own  ghost;  if  I  had  been  walking 
after  my  death  and  burial,  there  could  not,  I  think,  have  been  any 
material  difference  in  my  speculations. 

My  next  visit  was  to  the  front  gate  of  Sunny  Bank,  where  I  stood 
some  minutes,  looking  up  at  the  beautifully  quiet  house;  not  imlike 
the  'outcast  Peri '  done  into  prose.  How  would  my  old  godmother 
and  the  others  have  looked,  I  wondered,  had  they  known  who  was 
there  .so  near  them?  I  longed  to  go  in  and  kiss  them  once  more, 
.  but  positively  dared  not;  I  felt  tliat  their  demonstrations  of  affec- 
tion would  break  me  down  into  a  torrent  of  tears,  which  tliere  was 
no  lime  for;  so  I  contented  myself  with  kissing  the  gate  (?)  and 
returned  to  my  inn,  it  being  now  near  dark.  Siuely  it  was  the 
silentest  inn  on  the  planet!  not  a  living  being,  male  or  female,  to 
be  seen  in  it  except  when  I  rang  my  bell,  and  then  the  landlord  or 
waiter  (both  old  men)  did  my  bidding  promptly  and  silently,  and 
vanished  again  into  space.    On  my  rc-entrance  I  rang  for  candles, 


263  LETTERS  AND   MEMORIALS   OF 

and  for  a  glass  of  sherry  and  hot  water;  my  feet  had  been  wetted 
amongst  the  long  grass  of  the  churchyard,  and  I  felt  to  be  taking 
cold;  so  I  made  myself  negus  as  an  antidote,  and  they  say  I  am  not 
a  practical  woman !  Then  it  struck  me  I  would  write  to  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  one  more  letter  from  the  old  place,  after  so  much  come  and 
gone.  Accordingly  I  wrote  till  the  town  clock  (the  first  familiar 
voice  I  had  heard)  struck  eleven,  then  twelve,  and,  near  one,  I 
wrote  the  Irish  address  on  my  letter  and  finally  put  myself  to  bed 
— in  the  '  George  Inn '  of  Haddington,  good  God!  I  thought  it  too 
strange  and  mournful  a  position  for  ever  falling  asleep  in ;  never- 
theless I  slept  in  the  first  instance,  for  I  was  'a-weary,  a-weary,' 
body  and  soul  of  me !  But,  alas !  the  only  noise  I  was  to  hear  in 
Haddington  'transpired'  exactly  at  the  wrong  moment;  before  I 
had  slept  one  hour  I  was  awoke  by — an  explosion  of  cats !  The 
rest  of  that  night  I  spent  betwixt  sleeping  and  waking,  in  night- 
mare efforts  to  'sort  up  my  thoughts.'  At  half  after  five  I  put  my 
clothes  on,  and  began  the  business  of  the  day  by  destroying  in  a 
moment  of  enthusiasm — for  silence — the  long  letter  '  all  about  feel- 
ings '  which  I  had  written  the  night  before.  Soon  after  six  I  was 
haunting  our  old  house,  while  the  present  occupants  still  slept.  I 
found  the  garden  door  locked,  and  iron  stanchions — my  heavens! — 
on  the  porch  and  cellar  windows,  '  significative  of  much! '  For  the 
rest,  there  was  a  general  need  of  paint  and  whitewash;  in  fact,  the 
whole  premises  had  a  bedimmed,  melancholy  look  as  of  having 
'  seen  better  days. ' 

It  was  difficult  for  me  to  realise  to  myself  that  the  people  inside 
were  only  asleep,  and  not  dead — dead  since  many  years.  Ah !  one 
breathed  freer  in  the  churchyard,  with  the  bright  morning  sunshine 
streaming  down  on  it,  than  near  that  (so-called)  habitation  of  the 
living!  I  went  straight  from  one  to  the  other.  The  gate  was  still 
locked,  for  I  was  an  hour  before  my  time;  so  I  made  a  dash  at  the 
wall,  some  seven  feet  high  I  should  think,  and  dropt  safe  on  the 
inside — a  feat  I  should  never  have  imagined  to  try  in  my  actual 
phase,  not  even  with  a  mad  bull  at  my  heels,  if  I  had  not  trained, 
myself  to  it  at  a  more  elastic  age.  Godefroi  Cavaignac's  '  Qu&i 
done,  je  ne  suis pas  mort! '  crossed  my  mind;  but  I  had  none  of  that 
feeling — moi — was  morte  enough  I  knew,  whatever  face  I  might 
put  on  it;  only,  what  one  has  well  learnt  one  never  forgets. 

When  I  had  scraped  the  moss  out  of  the  inscription  as  well  as  I 
could  with  the  only  thing  in  my  dressing  case  at  all  suited  to  the 
purpose,  namely  his  own  button-hook  with  the  mother-of-pearl 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  263 

handle,  I  made  a  deliberate  survey  of  the  whole  churchyard ;  and 
most  of  the  names  I  had  missed  out  of  the  sign-boards  turned  up 
for  me  once  more  on  the  tombstones.  It  was  strange  the  feeling  of 
almost  glad  recognition  that  came  over  me,  in  finding  so  many 
familiar  figures  out  of  my  childhood  and  youth  all  galliered  together 
in  one  place;  but,  still  more  interesting  for  me  than  these  later 
graves  were  two  that  I  remembered  to  have  wept  little  innocent 
tears  over  before  I  had  a  conception  what  real  weeping  meant — the 
grave  of  the  little  girl  who  was  burnt  to  death,  througli  drying  her 
white  muslin  frock  at  the  fire,  and  that  of  the  young  officer  (Ruth- 
erford) who  was  shot  in  a  duel.  The  oval  tablet  of  white  marble 
over  the  little  girl's  grave  looked  as  bright  and  spotless  as  on  the 
first  day — as  emblematic  of  the  child  existence  it  commemorated; 
it  seemed  to  my  somewhat  excited  imagination  that  the  youthful- 
ness  and  innocence  there  buried  had  impregnated  the  marble  to 
keep  it  snow-white  for  ever! 

When  the  sexton  came  at  eight  to  let  me  in,  he  found  me  ready 
to  be  let  out.  'How  in  the  world  had  I  got  in!'  'Over  the 
wall! '  '  No!  surely  I  couldn't  mean  that  ? '  '  Why  not? '  '  Lord's 
sake  then,'  cried  the  man  in  real  admiration,  'there  is  no  end  to 
you!'  He  told  me  at  parting,  'There  is  one  man  in  this  town, 
me'm,  you  might  like  to  see,  James  Robertson,  your  father's  old 
servant.'  Our  own  old  Jamie!  he  was  waiter  at  'The  Star.' — Good 
gracious! — had  returned  to  Haddington  within  the  last  year.  '  Yes, 
indeed,'  I  said,  'he  must  be  sent  to  me  at  "  The  George"  an.  hour 
hence,  and  told  only  that  a  lady  wanted  him.' 

It  was  still  but  eight  o'clock,  so  I  should  have  time  to  look  at 
Sunny  Bank  from  the  back  gate,  and  streamed  off  in  that  direction; 
but  passing  my  dear  old  school-house,  I  observed  the  door  a  little 
ajar,  walked  in  and  sat  down  in  my  old  seat,  to  the  manifest  aston- 
ishment of  a  decent  woman  who  was  sweeping  tlie  floor.  Ach 
Gottf  our  maps  and  geometrical  figures  had  given  place  to  texts 
from  Scripture,  and  the  foolishest  half -penny  pictures!  It  was  be- 
come an  Infant  School!  and  a  Miss  Alexander  was  now  teacher 

where  Edward  Irving  and  James  Brown  had  taught.     Miss  A 

and  her  infants  were  not,  it  seemed,  early  risers,  their  school-room 
after  eight  o'clock  was  only  being  swept:  it  was  at  seven  of  the 
morning  that  James  Brown  found  me  asleep  there,  after  two  hours' 
hard  study,  asleep  betwixt  the  leaves  of  the  Great  Atlas,  like  a 
keep  lesson !  but,  '  things  have  been  all  going  to  the  devil  ever  since 
the  Reform  Bill ' — as  my  uncle  is  always  telling  us.     The  woman 


264  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

interrupted  her  sweeping  to  inform  me  amongst  otlier  thiogsthat  it 
was  '  a  most  terrible  place  for  dust,'  that  'a  deal  was  put  into 
bairns  now,  which  she  dooted  was  waste  wark,'  that  'it  was  little 
one  got  by  cleaning  after  them,'  and  '  if  her  husband  had  his  legs, 
they  might  have  tlie  school  that  liked. '  Not  the  vestige  of  a  boy  or 
even  of  a  girl  was  to  be  seen  about  the  Grammar  School  either. 
That  school,  I  afterwards  heard  from  Jamie,  '  had  gone  to  just  per- 
fect nonsense.'  '  There  was  a  master  (one  White),  but  no  scholars.' 
'How  is  that?'  I  asked;  'are  there  no  children  here  any  longer?' 
'  Why,  it's  not  altogether  the  want  o'  children, '  said  Jamie  with  his 
queer  old  smudge  of  inarticulate  fun ;  '  but  the  new  master  is  rather 
severe — broke  the  jawbone  of  a  wee  boy,  they  tell  me;  but  indeed 
the  whole  place  is  sore  gone  down.'  I  should  think  so!  But  I  am 
not  got  to  Jamie  yet,  another  meeting  came  off  before  that  one. 

Sunny  Bank  looked  even  lovelier  '  in  the  light  of  a  new  morning' 
than  it  had  done  in  the  evening  dusk.  A  hedge  of  red  roses  in  full 
blow  extended  now  from  the  house  to  the  gate ;  and  I  thought  I 
might  go  in  and  gather  one  without  evoking  any — beast.  Once  in- 
side the  gate,  I  passed  easily  to  the  idea  of  proceeding  as  far  as  the 
back-door,  just  to  ask  the  servant  how  they  all  were,  and  leave 
compliments  without  naming  myself;  the  servants  only  would  be 
astir  so  early.  Well!  when  I  had  knocked  at  the  door  with  my 
finger,  'sharp  but  mannerly,'  it  was  opened  by  a  tidy  maid-servant, 
exhibiting  no  more  surprise  than  if  1  had  been  the  baker's  boy! 

Strange,  was  it  not,  that  anybody  should  be  in  a  calm  state  of 
mind,  while  I  was  so  full  of  emotions?  Strange  that  the  universe 
should  pursue  its  own  course  without  reference  to  my  presence  in 
Haddington!  'Are  your  ladies  quite  well?'  I  asked  nevertheless. 
'  Miss  Jess  and  Miss  Catherine  are  quite  well ;  Miss  Donaldson 
rather  complaining.  You  are  awan;,  me'm,  that  Mr.  Donaldson  is 
dead.'  'Oh,  dear,  yes!'  I  said,  thinking  she  meant  Alexander. 
'  At  what  hour  do  your  ladies  get  up? '  '  They  are  up,  me'm,  and 
done  breakfast.  Will  you  walk  round  to  the  front  door? '  Good- 
ness gracious!  should  I  '  walk  round  '  or  not?  My  own  nerves  had 
got  braced  somewhat  l)y  the  morning  air;  but  their  nerves! — how 
would  the  sight  of  me  thus  '  promiscuously '  operate  on  them? 
'  You  had  better  go  round  and  let  me  tell  the  ladies,'  put  in  the  ser- 
vant, as  if  in  reply  to  my  cogitations;  'what  name  shall  I  say?' 
'  None;  I  think  perhaps  my  name  would  startle  them  more  than  my- 
self;— tell  them  some  one  they  will  be  glad  to  see.'  And  so,  flinging 
the  responsibility  on  Providence,  who  is  made  for  being  fallen  back 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  265 

upon  in  such  dilemmas  (Providence  must  have  meant  me  to  see 
them  in  raising  them  out  of  bed  so  betimes! ),  I  did  '  go  round,'  with 
my  heart  thumping,  'Uke,  lilce,  lilie  any  tiling.'  The  maid-servant 
met  me  at  the  front  door,  and  conducted  me  to  the  drawing-room ; 
where  was — nobody,  but  on  a  table  lay  a  piece  of  black  bordered 
note-paper  which  explained  to  me  that  it  was  Mr.  Donaldson  of 
London  who  was  dead — the  last  brother— dead  in  these  very  days  ! 
I  wish  I  had  not  come  in,  but  it  was  out  of  time  now.  The  door 
opened  and  showed  me  Miss  Catherine  changed  into  an  old  w^oman, 
and  showed  Miss  Catherine  me  changed  into  one  of — a  certain  age' 
She  remained  at  the  door,  motionless,  speechless,  and  I  couldn't 
rise  off  my  chair— at  least  I  didn't;  but  when  I  saw  her  eyes  star- 
ing, '  like  watch  faces,'  I  said,  '  Oh,  Miss  Catherine,  don't  be 
frightened  at  me! ' — and  then  she  quite  shrieked  '  Jeannie!  Jeannie! 
Jeannie  Welsh!  my  Jeannie!  my  Jeannie!'  Oh,  mercy!  I  shan't 
forget  that  scene  in  a  hurry.  I  got  her  in  my  arms  and  kissed  her 
into  wits  again;  and  then  we  both  cried  a  little — naturally;  both  of 
us  had  had  enough  since  w^e  last  met  to  cry  for.  I  explained  to  her 
'  how  I  was  situated,'  as  Mr.  C.  would  say,  and  that  I  was  meaning 
to  visit  them  after,  like  a  Christian;  and  she  found  it  all  'most 
wisely  done,  done  like  my  own  self.'  Humph!  poor  Miss  Cather- 
ine! it's  little  she  knows  of  my  own  self,  and  perhaps  the  less  the 
better!  She  told  me  about  their  brother's  death,  which  had  been 
sudden  at  the  last.  Supposing  me  still  in  London  as  usual,  and 
that  in  Loudon  we  hear  of  one  another's  deaths,  they  had  been  say- 
ing it  was  strange  I  did  not  write  to  them,  and  my  godmother 
had  remarked,  'It  is  not  like  her!'  just  while  I  was  standing  at 
their  gate  most  likely,  for  it  was  'the  evening  before,  about  dark,' 
they  had  been  speaking  of  me. 

But  again  the  door  opened  and  showed  Miss  Jess.  Ach  !  she  had 
to  be  told  who  I  was,  and  pretty  loudly  too;  but  when  she  did  take 
in  the  immense  fact,  oh,  my!  if  she  didn't  'show  feeling  enough' 
(her  own  favourite  expression  of  old).  Poor  Jess  after  all!  We 
used  to  think  she  showed  even  more  feeling  than  she  felt,  and  noth- 
ing came  out  on  the  present  emergence  to  alter  our  opinion  of  her. 
But  enough — the  very  old,  it  seems  to  me,  should  be  admitted  by 
favour  to  the  privilege  of  the  Dead — have  '  no  ill'  spoken  of  them 
that  can  possiblj'-  be  helped. 

My  '  godmother '  was  keeping  her  bed  '  with  rheumatism '  and 
grief.     As  I  '  would  really  come  back  soon,'  it  was  settled  to  leave 
her  quiet.     They  offered  me  breakfast,  it  was  still  on  the  table,  biU 
L-12 


266  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

•  horrible  was  the  thought '  to  me.  It  was  all  so  solemn  and  dole- 
ful there  that  I  should  have  heard  every  morsel  going  down 
my  throat!  besides,  I  was  engaged  to  breakfast  with  myself  at  the 
'George.'  So,  with  blessings  for  many  days,  I  slipt  away  from 
them  like  a  knotless  thread. 

My  friend  the  cooper,  espying  me  from  his  doorway  on  the  road 
back,  planted  himself  firmly  in  my  path;  'if  I  would  just  compli- 
ment him  with  my  name  he  would  be  terribly  obliged;  we  had  been 
uncommon  comfortable  togetlier,  and  he  must  know  what  they 
called  me! '  I  told  him,  and  he  neither  died  on  the  spot  nor  went 
mad ;  he  looked  pleased,  and  asked  how  many  children  1  had  had. 
'None,' I  told  him.  'None?'  in  a  tone  of  astonishment  verging 
on  horror.  '  None  at  all?  then  what  on  earth  had  I  been  doing  all 
this  time?'  'Amusing  myself,'  1  told  him.  He  ran  after  me  to 
beg  I  would  give  him  a  call  on  my  return  (I  had  spoken  of  return- 
ing) '  as  he  might  be  making  something,  belike,  to  send  south  with 
me,  something  small  and  of  a  fancy  sort,  liker  myself  than  them  I 
had  bought.' 

Breakfast  stood  ready  for  me  at  the  inn,  and  was  discussed  in 
five  minutes.  Then  I  wrote  a  note  to  Mr.  C,  a  compromise  be- 
twixt '  all  about  feelings '  and  '  the  new  silent  system  of  the  prisons. 
Then  I  went  to  my  bedroom  to  pack  up.  The  chambermaid  came 
to  say  a  gentleman  was  asking  for  me.  'For  me?'  'Yes;  he 
asked  for  the  lady  stopping  here  '  (no  influx  of  company  at  the 
'George'  it  seemed).  'Did  you  see  him?'  I  asked,  divining 
Jamie;  '  are  you  sure  it  is  a  gentleman  ?'  'I  am  sure  of  his  being 
put  on  like  one.'  I  flew  down  to  my  parlour  and  there  was  .Jamie 
sure  enough,  Jamie  to  the  life!  and  I  threw  my  arms  round  his 
neck — that  did  I.  He  stood  quite  passive  and  quite  pale,  with 
great  tears  rolling  down ;  it  was  minutes  before  he  spoke,  and  then 
he  said  onlj%  low  under  his  breath,  'Mrs. — Carlyle!'  So  nice  he 
looked,  and  hardly  a  day  older,  and  really  as  like  '  a  gentleman '  as 
some  lords;  he  had  dressed  himself  in  his  Sunday  clothes  for  the 
occasion,  and  they  were  capital  good  ones.  '  And  you  knew  me. 
Jamie,  at  first  sight?  '  I  asked.  '  Toot!  we  knew  ye  afore  we  seed 
ye.'  '  Then  you  were  told  it  was  me? '  '  No;  they  told  us  just  we 
was  to  speak  to  a  lady  at  the  "  George,"  and  I  knew  it  was  Mrs. 
Carlyle.'  'But  how  could  j'ou  tell,  dear  Jamie?'  'Hoots!  who 
else  could  it  be? '  Dear,  funniest  of  created  Jamies  !  While  he 
was  ostler  at  the  '  Black  Bull,'  Edinburgh,  '  one  of  them  what-ye- 
call  bagmen  furgotted  his  patterns '  at  Haddington,  and  he  (Jamie) 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  367 

was  'sent  to  take  them  up;  and  falling  in  talk  with  him  at  the 
"Star,"  it  came  out  there  was  no  waiter,  and  so  in  that  way,'  said 
Jamie,  'we  came  back  to  the  old  place.'  He  told  me  all  sorts  of 
particulars  '  more  protitable  to  the  soul  of  man '  than  anything  I 
should  have  got  out  of  Mr.  Charteris  in  three  years,  never  to  say 
'three  weeks.'  But  'a  waggon  came  in  atween  ten  and  eleven, 
and  he  must  be  stepping  west.'  'He  was  glad  to  have  seen  me 
looking  so  '  (dropping  his  voice)  'stootish.'  [I  saw  him  from  the 
omnibus,  after  unloading  the  waggon,  in  his  workday  clothes  al- 
most on  the  very  spot  where,  for  a  dozen  years,  he  had  helped  me 
in  and  out  of  our  carriage.] 

And  now  there  only  remained  to  pay  my  bill  and  await  the  om- 
nibus. I  have  that  bill  of  6s.  M.  in  my  writing-case,  and  shall  keep 
it  all  my  days ;  not  only  as  an  eloquent  memorial  of  human  change, 
like  grass  from  graves  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  as  the  first 
inn-bill  I  ever  in  my  life  contracted  and  paid  on  my  own  basis. 
Another  long  look  from  the  '  George  Inn  '  window,  and  then  into 
the  shabby  little  omnibus  again,  where  the  faces  of  a  lad}'  next  me 
and  a  gentleman  opposite  me  tormented  my  memory  without  re- 
sult. 

In  the  railway  carriage  which  I  selected  an  old  gentleman  had 
taken  his  seat,  and  I  recognised  him  at  once  as  Mr.  Lea,  the  same 
who  made  the  little  obelisk  which  hangs  in  my  bedroom  at  Chelsea. 
He  had  grown  old  like  a  golden  pippin,  merelj^  crined,^  with  the 
bloom  upon  liim.  I  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm,  turning  away  my 
face,  and  said :  '  Thank  God  here  is  one  person  I  feel  no  difficulty 
about!'  'I  don't  know  you,'  he  said,  in  his  old  blunt  way;  'who 
are  you?'  'Guess!'  'Was  it  you  who  got  over  the  churchyard 
wall  this  morning?  I  saw  a  stranger  lady  climb  the  wall,  and  I 
said  to  myself,  that's  Jeannie  Welsh!  no  other  woman  would  climb 
the  wall  instead  of  going  in  at  the  gate.  Are  you  Jeaunie  Welsh? ' 
I  owned  the  soft  impeachment;  then  such  shaking  of  hands,  em- 
bracing even!  But  so  soon  as  things  had  calmed  down  a  little  be- 
tween us,  Mr.  Lea  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  said,  as  if 
pursuing  knowledge  under  difficulties,  '  Now  tell  me,  my  dear, 
why  did  you  get  over  the  wall  instead  of  just  asking  for  the  key?  ' 
He  spoke  of  William  Ainslcy's  death;  I  said  I  had  never  known 
him,  that  he  went  to  India  before  I  could  remember.  '  Nonsense,' 
said  Mr.  Lea;  '  not  remember  William  Ainsley?  Never  knew  Wil- 
liam Ainsley?    What  are  you  thinking  of?    Why,  didn't  he  wrap 


I  I.e.  shrunlc, 


268  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

you  in  a  shawl  and  run  away  with  you  to  our  house  the  very  day 
you  were  born,  I  believe? '  I  said  it  might  be  very  true,  but  that 
the  circumstance  had  escaped  my  recollection.  Mr.  Lea  was  left  at 
Longniddry,  where  he  came  daily,  he  said,  to  bathe  in  the  sea. 
What  energy! 

While  waiting  there  for  the  train  from  London,  I  saw  again  my 
lady  and  gentleman  of  the  omnibus,  and  got  their  names  from  Mr. 
Lea.  They  were  not  people  I  had  ever  visited  with,  but  I  had 
been  at  school  with  them  both.  We  passed  and  repassed  one  an- 
other without  the  slightest  sign  of  recognition  on  their  side. 
George  Cunningham,  too,  was  pacing  the  Longniddry  platform,  the 
boy  of  our  school  who  never  got  into  trouble,  and  never  helped 
others  out  of  it — a  slow,  bullet-headed  boy,  who  said  his  lessons 
like  an  eight-day  clock,  and  never  looked  young;  now,  on  the 
wrong  side  of  forty,  it  might  be  doubted  if  he  would  ever  look  old. 
He  came  up  to  me  and  shook  bauds,  and  asked  me  by  name  how  I 
did,  exactly  as  though  we  met  on  'change  every  daj'  of  our  lives. 
To  be  sure  I  had  seen  him  once  since  we  were  at  school  together, 
had  met  him  at  Craik's  some  twelve  years  ago.  Such  as  he  was, 
we  stood  together  till  the  train  came  up,  and  '  talked  of  geography, 
politics,  and  nature.' 

At  Edinburgh  Jeannie's '  sweet  little  face  looked  wildly  into  the 
carriage  for  me,  and  next  minute  we  were  chirping  and  twittering 
together  on  the  platform,  whilst  the  eternal  two  boxes,  writing- 
case,  and  carpet-bag  were  being  once  more  brought  into  one  focus. 
'  Look,  look,  cousin ! '  said  Jeaunie,  '  there  are  people  who  know 
you!'  And  looking  as  I  was  bid,  who  but  the  pair  who  had  ac- 
compiuiicd  me  from  Haddington,  with  their  heads  laid  together, 
and  the  eyes  starting  out  of  them  me-ward.  The  lady,  the  instant 
she  saw  1  noticed  them,  sprang  forward  extending  her  hand;  the 
husband,  'emboldened  by  her  excellent  example,'  did  the  same; 
they  were  '  surprised,'  '  delighted,'  everything  that  could  be  wished ; 
'  had  not  had  a  conception  of  its  being  me  till  they  saw  me  smil- 
ing.' '  Eh,  sirs! '  said  my  mother's  old  nurse  to  her  after  a  separa- 
tion of  twenty  years,  '  there's  no  a  featur  o'  ye  left  but  just  the  bit 
smile!' 

I  will  call  for  these  Richardsons  when  I  go  back  to  Haddington ; 
I  like  their  hop-step-and-junip  over  ceremony,  their  oblivion  in  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  moment  that  we  had  '  belonged  to  different  cir- 
cles '  (Haddington  speaking). 

*  Cousin  from  Liverpool  (now  Mrs.  Chrystal). 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  269 

And  now  having  brought  myself  to  Edinburgh,  and  under  the 
little  protecting  wing  of  Jeaunie,  I  bid  myself  adieu  and  '  wave  my 
lily  hand.'  I  was  back  into  the  present!  and  it  is  only  in 
connection  with  the  past  that  I  can  get  up  a  sentiment  for  myself. 
The  present  Mrs.  Carlyle  is— what  shall  I  say  ?— detestable,  upon 
my  honor. ' 

Auchtertool  Manse:  Aug.  2. 

LETTER  114. 

Sunny  Bank  (now  Tenterfield)  is  the  Donaldsons'  residence,  a 
pleasant,  most  tranquil  house  and  garden  in  the  suburbs  of  Had- 
dington—to  her  always  a  quasi-materual  house.  Gleu  Truin  (pro- 
nounced Troon)  is  Lord  Asliburton's  deer-hunting  station  in  Mac- 
pherson  of  Oluuy's  country,  rented,  twice  over  I  think,  at  the  easy 
rate  of  1,000^.  a  season— intrinsic  value,  perhaps,  from  50^.  to  25^. 
Thither  I  had  passed  from  Scotsbrig;  saw  my  darling  at  Linlathen 
for  a  day  or  two  in  passing  (she  ill  oft,  I  ditto — much  out  of  sorts 
both  of  us);  had  there,  loo,  a  miserable  enough  hugger-mugger 
time.  My  own  blame;  none  others'  so  much — saw  that  always. — 
T.  C. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  at  Glen  Truin  House. 

Sunny  Bank,  Haddington:  Sept.  5, 1849. 
It  looks  a  month  since  we  parted  at  Dundee!  I  have  had  so 
much  of  both  motional  and  '  emotional  culture '  since  that  evening. 
Ooot  look  did  not  follow  me  into  the  Orient^  by  any  means.  A 
headache  followed  me,  and  stuck  by  me  till  the  Monday  that  I  left 
Kirkcaldy;  of  heartache  I  will  not  speak;  but  there  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  be  silent  on  the  misfortune  I  happened  one  hour 
after  my  return  to  Fergus-dom;  that  might  have  happened  to  any- 
one, however  little  of  an  egoist.  I  had  lain  down  on  the  black 
coffin-like  sofa  in  my  bedroom  to  try  what  rest,  such  as  could  be 
had  under  the  circumstances,  would  do  for  my  head,  when  I  felt 
something  like  a  blue-bottle  creep  inside  my  hand;  shook  it  off, 
and,  oh,  myl  the  next  instant  I  was  on  foot  like  'a  mad '—stung 
by  a  wasp!  Miss  Jessie  got  the  sting  out,  and  admired  it  through 
her  glass,  and  applied,  on  my  own  advice,  laudanum  and  honey; 
but  the  pain  went  up  to  my  shoulder  and  down  to  my  side,  and  the 
swelling  and  inflammation  spread  so  fast  all  up  my  arm,  that  Miss 


*  A  Mazzini  locution. 

■•«  Supra,  Haddington  is  east.    Mrs.  Carlyle  had  returned  thither  to  stay  with 
the  Donaldsons. 


270  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Jessie  could  hardly  be  hindered  from  running  herself  for  both  a 
doctor  and  a  silversmith ;  the  last  to  cut  a  ring  that  could  not  be 
got  off;  but  it  was  my  mother's  little  pebble  ring,  and  I  would  not 
suffer  it  to  be  cut,  and  neither  would  I  be  at  the  cost  of  a  doctor 
just  3'et.  All  that  evening  I  suffered  horribly,  in  silence,  and  all 
night  'the  trophies  of  the  wasp  would  not  let  me  sleep,'  not  one 
wink.  However,  I  went  next  day  to  Auchtertool  with  my  hand  in 
a  poultice,  being  still  determined  to  '  come  out  of  that'  on  Monday, 
and  unwilling  to  go  without  saying  farewell  to  my  poor  uncle, 
whom  it  is  likely  enough  I  shall  never  see  again. 

On  Sunday  night  the  pain  was  sufficiently  abated  to  let  me  sleep. 
So  I  was  up  to  leaving,  according  to  programme,  by  the  quarter- 
after-eight  traiu.  John  and  Jessie  were  up  to  give  me  breakfast, 
and  see  me  off,  and  Mrs.  Nixon  gave  me  a  nice  little  trunk  to  facili- 
tate my  packing.  They  were  really  very  kind,  the  poor  Ferguses; 
but  somehow  or  other  they  are  radically  uncomfortable  people  for 
us  to  be  mixed  up  with,  in  spite  of  their  '  good  intentions.' 

I  got  to  the  Princes  Street  station  a  little  before  ten,  and  found 
on  inquiry  that  I  could  have  my  luggage  taken  care  of  for  me  on 
paying  the  sum  of  sixpence  for  booking;  so  I  left  there  everything 
but  my  writing-case,  in  which  were  my  jewels  and  your  manu- 
script ;  and  with  that  I  got  into  a  cab,  having  bargained  with  the 
cabman  for  two  shillings  an  hour  (I  tell  you  these  details  for  your 
own  guidance  in  case  of  your  returning  by  Edinburgh),  and  drove 
to  Adam  Street  to  Betty.' 

Of  all  the  meetings  I  have  had  in  Scotland,  that  was  the  most 
moving,  as  well  as  the  happiest;  was  just  all  but  a  meeting  betwixt 
mother  and  child  after  twenty  years'  separation.  She  was  on  her 
knees  blackleading  her  grate,  all  in  confusion,  poor  soul!  her  little 
carpet  up,  everything  topsy-turvy,  a  domestic  earthquake  having 
been  commenced  that  very  moraing  in  preparation  for  my  coming, 
Miss  Anne  having  kindly  warned  her  that  she  might  be  'all  ready;' 
but  I  was  too  early,  and  so  found  her  all  unready,  only  her  heart  as 
right  as  could  be.  Oh,  dear  me!  how  she  does  love  me,  that 
woman,  and  how  good  and  pious-hearted  she  is!  While  I  sat  on 
her  knee,  with  my  arms  about  her  neck,  and  she  called  me  her 
'dear  bairn,'  and  locked  at  me  as  if  she  would  have  made  me  wel- 
come to  her  'skin,'  I  felt,  as  nearly  as  possible,  perfectly  happy — 

*  The  old  Haddington  servant— almost  from  my  Jeannie's  birth— is  still  liv- 
ing (1869),  one  of  the  venerablest  and  most  faithful  of  women.  I  never  saw 
such  perfection  of  attachment,  and  doubt  if  it  exists  elsewhere. — T.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  271 

just  fancy  that!  But  I  must  not  get  into  the  details  of  my  visit  to 
her  just  now;  mj'  few  days  here  are  so  filled  up,  I  have  not  yet 
seeu  half  the  people  I  wish  to  see.  She  gave  me  four  biscuits 
■wrapt  in  her  best  pocket-handkerchief,  aad  promised  to  see  me  at 
my  aunt's  before  I  left  in  the  evening;  and  then  I  jumped  into  my 
cab  again,  and  proceeded  to  Clarence  Street.' 

A  kind  note,  received  at  Kirkcaldy  from  Elizabeth,  had  prepared 
me  for  a  rather  warmer  welcome  than  I  had  anticipated,  but  not 
for  so  warm  a  one  as  I  got ;  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  be  so 
received  by  my  father's  sisters,  hovrever  unlike  him.  My  heart  was 
opened  by  their  kindness  to  tell  them  that  it  was  nothing  but  ap- 
prehension of  their  bothering  me  about  my  soul  which  had  es- 
tranged me  from  them  so  entirely.  Anne's  reply,  given  wuth  an 
arch  look  and  tone,  was  very  nice,  '  Indeed,  Jeannie,  you  need  not 
have  been  afraid  of  our  setting  ourselves  to  reform  you ;  it  is  plain 
enough  that  nothing  short  of  God's  own  grace  can  do  that,  but  I 
won't  despair  that  a  lime  may  come,  though  I  am  not  such  a  fool 
as  to  think  that  I  can  hasten  it.'  Anne  went  out  with  me,  and  we 
called  for  Mrs.  George '' — not  at  home ;  at  the  Stoddarts' — the  lady 
in  the  country,  John  petrified-looking,  either  hardened  into  stone, 
or  quite  stunned  at  seeing  me,  I  could  not  tell  which.  On  our  way 
to  Mrs.  Sterling's  ^  we  met  her,  and  she  flew  into  my  arms  in  the 
open  street,  just  as  she  would  have  done  before  writing  '  Fanny 
Hervey.'  I  walked  into  Marshall  the  jeweller's,  who  knew  me  at 
once;  and  a  Mrs.  Watson,  who  met  me  on  the  bridge,  shouted  out 
Jeannie  Welsh !    But  I  will  tell  you  all  the  rest  afterwards. 

Miss  Catherine  was  wailing  for  me  with  a  carriage  at  the  Had- 
dington station,  told  me  there  was  a  letter  from  you  here  for  me, 
but  it  proved  only  the  briefest  of  notes  from  John.  Yours,  how- 
ever, came  yesterday  forenoon,  just  when  I  w'as  sallying  out  to 
make  calls.  I  was  through  all  our  house  yesterday,  from  garret  to 
kitchen;  everybody  is  so  good  to  me,  so  very  good!  Miss  Howden 
brought  me  a  bouquet  '  out  of  your  own  garden '  last  night,  and 
Helen  Howden  has  just  sent  me  her  children  to  look  at,  and  you 
wrote  me  a  nice  long  letter — so  1  ought  to  be  thankful.  I  go  back 
to  10  Clarence  Street  on  Thursday  (to-morrow  night),  and  stay  with 
my  aunta  till  Saturday,  when  I  shall  go  to  Scotsbrig.  I  have  writ- 
ten to  John.  J.  W.  C. 

No  more  room;  margin  itself  half  full. — T.  C. 

'  To  her  aunts,  Elizabeth,  Ann,  and  Grace  Welsh. 
'  Widow  of  George  Welsh.  *  Susan  Hunter. 


273  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  115. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Maryland  Street,  Liverpool:  Friday,  Sept.  14, 1849. 

Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!  How  thankful  I  may  be  that  I  knew 
nothing  of  that  colic  '  till  it  was  over!  A  colic  in  these  cholera- 
times  would  have  alarmed  me  in  any  circumstances;  but  there — 
remembering,  as  I  still  do,  '  rather  exquisitely, '  my  own  sore  throat 
transacted  at  Alverstoke  three  winters  ago,  and  other  little  attacks 
of  my  own,  under  the  same  regime — how  could  1  have  stayed  in  my 
skin,  with  no  certainty  that  you  would  be  able  to  get  so  much  as  a 
cup  of  bad  tea,  never  to  speak  of  hot  water  to  your  feet,  or  human 
sympathy?  You  were  not,  it  would  seem,  so  wholly  left  to  Provi- 
dence as  I  was ;  still  it  is  a  great  mercy  that  you  were  not  long  laid 
up  in  that  house,  or  any  other  of  their  houses.  As  my  aunt  Grace 
told  me  very  often  during  my  bad  day:  '  There  is  mercy  mixed  up 
with  all  our  afflictions!  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  think  you  are  in 
better  hands  than  ours — I  mean  in  Jesus  Christ's.'  'Oh,  ay  I'  said 
dear  Betty,  '  Christ  has  care  of  my  bairn  a'wheres,  even  on  the 
railway!  And  a  great  comfort  that  is  for  me  to  think,  now  that 
she  gangs  sae  muckle  be  them! '  But  of  all  that,  some  quiet  even- 
ing at  Chelsea. 

I  have  to  tell  you  now  that  a  note  from  Elizabeth,  lying  for  me 
here,  stated  that  she  continued  better,  but  not  strong  yet,  and  that 
her  sister  was  still  with  her,  and  would  stay  till  I  came — a  great 
luck  that  this  sister  happened  to  be  out  of  a  place  just  now.  I 
fancy  the  poor  girl  had  been  in  a  very  dangerous  way  before  we 
heard  of  her  illness. 

Now  that  I  know  of  this  sister  being  with  her,  I  feel  in  less 
breathless  haste  to  fly  to  her  rescue — can  yield  to  Jeannie's  wish, 
which  is  indeed  an  obligation  of  duty  on  me,  with  a  good  grace, 
that  I  would  stay  here  over  Sunday,  to  give  her  my  advice  about 
Helen ;  she  (Jeannie)  being  to  arrive  from  Auchtertool  to-morrow 
.  night,  to  look  after  poor  Helen,  who  has  been  very  ill  indeed,  and 
I  am  afraid  has  a  disease  on  her  that  may  end  fatally,  sooner  than 
any  of  them  are  aware.  I  was  dreadfully  shocked  with  her  shape, 
and  emaciated  look;  still  she  can  go  out  for  exercise,  and  protests 

•  Got  by  a  too  violent  excursion  to  Glen— large  miscellaneous  party.  Lord 
Ashburton  and  I  rode  over  stock  and  stone  on  Highland  ponies. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  273 

that  she  is  getting  better,  but  there  is  death  in  her  face.  We  wish 
John  to  examine  into  her  case;  but  she  is  extremely  nervous  about 
him,  and  it  must  be  gone  about  delicately  when  Jeannie  comes.  I 
am  glad  dear  John  came  with  me. 

When  I  have  talked  with  Jeannie  I  can  be  of  no  further  use  here, 
only  a  trouble  in  fact;  so,  on  Monday,  I  mean  to  go  to  Manchester, 
to  make  amends  to  Geraldine  for  the  vexation  about  me,  caused  by 
that  foolish  Harriet  Martineau;'  and  to  London  straight,  next  day. 
That  is  my  present  programme;  if  it  receive  any  modification  I  will 
write  again  to  Scotsbrig,  where  I  hope  this  will  find  you  safe  and 
slept.  If  you  get  as  nice  porridge,  and  nice  coffee,  and  nice  every- 
thing, with  such  a  seasoning  of  human  kindness,  as  I  got  there,  you 
will  need  no  more  pity. 

John  went  out  with  Betsy  ^  last  night,  there  being  no  bed  for  him 
here,  unless  he  had  chosen  to  sleep  in  a  little  one  in  my  room, 
which  I  told  him  he  was  welcome  to  do,  if  he  liked!!  But  he  de- 
clined. He  promised  to  come  to-day  about  one,  and  stay  till  night. 
And  to-morrow  Bets}"  is  to  bring  the  carriage,  and  take  me  to  Sea- 
forth  for  a  few  hours,  just  to  satisfy  her  that  I  have  not '  registered 
a  vow  in  Heaven '  never  to  set  my  foot  in  her  house  again.  But  a 
few  hours  will  be  enough  of  that.  She  looks  to  be  more  than  ever 
in  a  state  of  'mild  delirium.' 

And  now  I  must  end  and  go  to  Helen.  Kindest  love  to  your 
mother  and  all  of  them.  And  tell  Isabella  I  forgot  the  woodriff; 
and  she  must  stuff  some  into  your  carpet-bag. 

If  j'ou  write  on  Sunday  or  Monday,  in  time  for  Tuesday  morn- 
ing, address  to  Geraldine's.  You  remember  Carlton  Terrace,  Green 
Hey 8,  Manchester. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  C. 

LETTER  116. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Sunday,  Oct.  1849. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Carlyle, — If  John  is  not  there  to  talk  to  you, 
how  you  will  be  needing  more  than  ever  to  be  written  to.  And  I 
should  be  very  ungrateful  for  all  your  affection  and  kindness  if  I 
did  not  contribute  my  mite,  especially  as  you  are  the  only  person 
that  ever  complimented  me  on  my  handwriting! 

>  QosBlp  of  some  kind.  '  Mrs.  Paulet. 


^1i  LETTERS   AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

The  settling  down  at  home  after  all  those  wanderings  has  been  a 
serious  piece  of  work  for  both  Mr.  C.  and  myself;  for  me,  I  have 
only  managed  it  by  a  large  consumption  of  morphia.  At  last, 
however,  I  begin  to  sleep,  if  not  like  a  Christian  yet,  at  least  less 
like  a  heathen.  Mr.  C.  is  at  his  work  again,  and  my  maid  is  at  her 
work  again;  and  the  supernumerary  sister  is  gone  away;  and  now 
that  the  house  should  go  on  in  its  old  routine  there  is  only  needed 
a  cat  (the  last  was  drowned  for  unexampled  dishonesty  during  my 
absence)  to  eat  the  regiments  of  mice,  who  have  effected  a  settle- 
ment in  every  part  of  the  house,  the  parlour  not  excepted,  and  who 
threaten  to  run  up  one's  very  petticoats  while  one  is  reading  one's 
book!  Mr.  C,  in  the  midst  of  talking  to  me  the  other  evening, 
suddenly  stamped  his  foot  on  the  hearth-rug  and  called  out  furi- 
ously '  Get  along,  sir! '  and  he  had  not  gone  mad,  had  merely  per- 
ceived a  mouse  at  his  feet! 

I  am  also  terribly  ill  off  for  curtains,  bugs  having  invaded  the 
premises  as  well  as  mice,  and  all  my  curtains  having  been  frantic- 
ally torn  down,  and  sent  to  the  dyers;  not  so  much  to  have  the 
colour  renewed,  as  to  have  the  bugs  boiled  to  death. 

The  middle  of  next  week  it  is  promised  I  shall  have  my  bed  set 
up  again;  but  in  the  meanwhile  I  feel  like  a  poor  wretch  in  an 
hospital,  or  a  beggar's  lodging-house,  lying  without  a  rag  about  me 
to  hide  my  'sleeping,' or  oftenest  sleepless,  'beauties'  from  the 
universe!  What  troubles  people  have  in  this  world  in  merely  pro- 
tecting themselves  from  the  inferior  animals! 

For  the  rest:  London  is  quiet  enough  for  the  most  retired  taste 
at  present,  and  I  like  it  best  so ;  there  are  always  some  '  dandering 
individuals  '  dropping  in,  to  prevent  one  from  growing  quite  sav- 
age, and  of  excitement  I  had  enough  in  Scotland  to  serve  me  for 
many  months  to  come.  I  am  very  glad  I  have  been  in  Scotland 
once  more,  and  seen  all  those  places  and  people;  though  it  was 
smashing  work  at  the  time!  I  have  brought  away  many  recollec- 
tions that  will  be  a  pleasure  for  me  all  my  life;  and  my  visit  to 
Scotsbrig  was  the  one  in  which  I  had  most  unmixed  satisfac- 
tion ;  for,  along  with  my  pleasure  at  Haddington  and  Edinburgh, 
there  was  almost  more  pain  than  I  could  bear.  But  you  were  all 
so  kind  to  me,  and  then  you  were  little  changed.  I  had  seen  you 
all  so  much  more  recently,  and,  in  short,  in  finding  so  much  to 
please  me  at  Scotsbrig,  I  miss  nothing  I  had  ever  possessed  there. 
In  the  other  places  it  was  far  otherwise. 

I  hope  you  have  the  same  mild  weather  that  has  been  here  the 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  275 

last  few  days;  that  your  poor  face  may  be  quite  mended.  We 
shall  be  very  anxious  till  we  hear  that  you  are  in  your  usual  state 
again,  and  that  Jamie  is  come  home  well.  I  am  very  sorry  about 
Jamie's  ill-health;  he  seems  to  deserve  more  than  any  of  us  to  be 
strong,  leading  the  natural,  hard-working  life  that  he  leads,  and 
manifesting  at  all  times  such  a  manly,  patient,  steadfast  mind. 

My  love  to  Isabella,  who  I  hope  is  not  gone  with  him;  for  she  is 
not  strong  enough  for  encountering  agitations  of  that  sort. 

Hoping  to  hear  soon  good  news  of  you  all,  I  remain,  dear  Mrs. 

Carlyle,  ever  yours 

Affectionately, 

Jake  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  117. 

To  Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Oct.  1849. 
My  dear  Jane, — Your  letter  was  one  of  the  letters  that  one  feels 
a  desire  to  answer  the  instant  one  is  done  reading  it — an  outof-the- 
heart  letter  that  one's  own  heart  (if  one  happen  to  have  one)  jumps 
to  meet.  But  writing  with  Mr.  C.  waiting  for  his  tea  was,  as  you 
will  easily  admit,  a  moral  impossibility;  and  after  tea  there  were 
certain  accursed  flannel  shirts  (oh,  the  alterations  that  have  been 
made  on  them!)  to  'piece;'  and  yesterday,  when  I  made  sure  of 
writing  you  a  long  letter,  I  had  a  headache,  and  durst  not  either 
write  or  read  for  fear  of  having  to  go  to  bed  with  it.  To-day  I 
write;  but  with  no  leisure,  though  I  have  no  'small  clothes'  to 
make,  nor  any  disturbance  in  that  line  (better  for  me  if  I  bad);  still 
I  get  into  as  great  bustles  occasionally  as  if  I  were  the  mother  of  a 
fine  boisterous  family.  Did  you  hear  that  I  found  bugs  in  my  red 
bed  on  my  return?  I  who  go  mad  where  a  bug  is!  and  that  bed 
"such  a  harbour  for  them,'  as  the  upholsterer  said.  Of  course  I  had 
it  pulled  in  pieces  at  once,  and  the  curtains  sent  to  the  dyeing — at 
immense  expense — and  ever  since  I  have  been  lying  in  the  cold 
nights  between  four  tall  bare  posts,  feeling  like  a  patient  in  a  London 
hospital.  To-day  at  last  two  men  are  here  puttiug  up  mj  curtains, 
and  making  mistakes  whenever  I  stay  many  minutes  away  from 
them;  and  as  soon  as  their  backs  are  turned  I  have  to  go  off  several 
miles  in  an  omnibus  to  see  Thackeray,  who  has  been  all  but  dead, 
and  is  still  confined  to  his  room,  and  who  has  written  a  line  to  ask 
me  to  come  and  see  him.    And  I  have  great  sympathy  always  with, 


2.76  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  show  all  the  kindness  in  my  power  to,  sick  people — having  so 
much  sickness  myself,  and  knowing  how  much  kindness  then  is 
gratifying  to  me. 

So  you  see,  dear,  it  is  not  the  right  moment  for  writing  you  the 
letter  that  is  lying  in  my  heart  for  you.  But  I  could  not,  under  any 
circumstances,  refrain  longer  from  telling  you  that  your  letter  was 
very,  very  welcome ;  that  the  tears  ran  down  my  face  over  it — 
though  Mr.  C.  was  sitting  opposite,  and  would  have  scolded  me  for 
'sentimentality'  if  he  had  seen  me  crying  over  kind  words  merely; 
and  that  I  have  read  it  three  times,  and  carried  it  iu  my  pocket 
ever  since  I  got  it,  though  my  rule  is  to  burn  all  letters.  Oh,  yes; 
there  is  no  change  in  me,  so  far  as  affection  goes,  depend  upon  that. 
But  there  are  other  changes,  which  give  me  the  look  of  a  very  cold 
and  hard  woman  generally.  I  durst  not  let  myself  talk  to  you  at 
Scotsbrig,  and  now  that  the  opportunity  is  passed  I  almost  wish  I 
had.  But  I  think  it  not  likely,  if  I  live,  that  I  will  be  long  of  re- 
turning to  Scotland.  All  that  true,  simple,  pious  kindness  that  I 
found  stored  up  for  me  there  ought  to  be  turned  to  more  account 
in  my  life.     "What  have  I  more  precious? 

Please  burn  this  letter — I  mean  don't  hand  it  to  the  rest;  there  is 
a  circulation  of  letters  in  families  that  frightens  me  from  writing 
often ;  it  is  so  difHcult  to  write  a  circular  to  one. 

How  glad  I  am  to  hear  such  good  news  of  Jamie.'  I  hope  to- 
night's post  will  tell  us  he  is  safe  home.  John,  I  fancy  from  Jean- 
nie's  last  letter,  does  not  go  back  with  him,  but  to  Auchtertool  for 
a  little  longer.  , 

Your  poor  mother  and  her  face — what  a  bout  she  must  have  had  I 
For  me,  I  am  really  better;  though  I  may  say,  in  passing,  that  Mr. 
C.  's  '  decidedly  stronger '  is  never  to  be  depended  on  in  any  account 
he  gives  of  me — as,  so  long  as  I  can  stand  on  my  legs,  he  never  no- 
tices that  anything  ails  me;  and  I  make  a  point  of  never  complain 
ing  to  him  unless  in  case  of  absolute  extremity.  But  I  have,  for  the 
last  week,  been  sleeping  pretty  well,  and  able  to  walk  again,  which 
I  had  not  been  up  to  since  my  return. 

About;  the  bonnet:  send  it  by  any  opportunity  you  find,  just  as  it 
is;  I  can  trim  very  nicely  mj-self,  and  perhaps  might  not  like  Miss 
Montgomery's  colour.  But  I  cannot  have  it  for  nothing,  dear.  If 
Miss  G.  won't  take  mone}',  I  must  find  some  other  way  of  paying 
her.     God  bless  you,  dear  Jane,  and  all  yours.     Remember  me  to 


*  Brother  Jamie.    Been  at  Edinburgh  for  a  surgical  operation  with  John. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  277 

James;  and  never  doubt  my  affection  for  yourself,  as  I  shall  never 
doubt  yours  for  me. 

Ever,  J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  118. 

John  Forster,  Esq.,  58  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Chelsea:  Tuesday  evening,  Nov.  14,  1849. 

God's  will  be  done !  dear  Mr.  Foster.  If  one  said  otherwise,  it 
would  do  itself  ail  the  same  in  spite  of  our  teeth;  so  best  to  sub- 
scribe with  a  good  grace.  I  have  taken  '  a  heavy  cold  ' — had  not 
five  minutes'  sleep  all  night  with  it,  and  am  just  risen  after  a  fever- 
ish day  in  bed.  There  is  no  present  prospect  of  my  being  up  to 
any  sort  of  pleasure  to-morrow;  and  I  think  with  dismay  of  Mrs. 
Dickens  brought  to  meet  me,  aud  me  not  forthcoming.  So  I  write 
at  once  that  you  may  if  you  like  put  the  other  female  off.  But  for 
Mrs.  Dickens,  who  may  not  perhaps  feel  so  perfectly  at  home  '  in 
Chambers'  as  you  have  taught,  me  to  feel,  I  should  have  waited  till 
the  last  moment  in  hope  of  a  miracle  being  worked  in  my  favour. 

Mr.  C.  of  course  will  be  with  you  as  little  too  late  as  possible  for 
a  man  of  his  habits. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlylb. 

There  is  a  novel  I  might  read  if  I  could  get  it  during  this  period 
of  sneezing  aud  streaming  at  the  eyes,  written  by  a  very  young  girl 
of  the  name  of  Mulock;  not  Dickens's 'a  young  lady  grow'd.'  I 
can't  remember  the  name  of  the  book;  but  the  authoress's  name  is 
Molock  or  something  very  like  it,  and  it  is  published  by  Chapman. 
It  must  be  rather  curious  to  see,  for  I  am  told  by  Madame  Pepoli 
the  Molock  is  eighteen,  has  read  '  absolutely  no  books,' and  seen 
'nothing  whatever  of  society; '  and  the  book  is  coming  to  a  second 
edition — '  circulates  in  families,'  and  will  yield  profit. 

LETTER  119. 

Poor  little  Nero,  the  dog,  must  have  come  this  winter,  or  '  Fall ' 
(1849)?  Railway  Guard  (from  Dilberoglue,  Jlanchester)  brought 
him  in  one  evening  late.  A  little  Cuban  (Maltese?  and  otherwise 
iiKingrei)  shock,  mostly  white— a  most  affectionate,  lively  little  dog, 
ctlierwise  of  small  merit,  and  little  or  no  training.  Much  innocent 
sport  there  rose  out  of  him;  much  quizzical  ingenuous  preparation 
of  me  for  admitting  of  him:  '  My  dear,  it's  borne  in  upon  my  mind 


278  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

that  I'm  to  have  a  dog!'  &c.,  &c.,  and  with  such  a  look  and  style! 
We  had  many  walks  together,  he  and  I,  for  the  next  tea  years;  a 
great  deal  of  small  traffic,  poor  little  animal,  so  loyal,  so  loving,  so 
naive  and  true  with  what  of  dim  intellect  he  had!  Once,  perhaps 
in  his  third  year  here,  he  came  pattering  upstairs  to  my  garret; 
scratched  duly,  was  let  in,  and  brought  me  (literally)  the  Gijft  of  a 
Horse  (which  I  had  talked  of  needing)!  Brought  me,  to  wit,  a 
letter  hung  to  his  neck,  inclosing  on  a  saddler's  card  the  picture  of 
a  horse,  and  adjoined  to  it  her  cheque  for  50^. — full  half  of  some 
poor  legacy  which  had  fallen  to  her!  Can  I  ever  forget  such  a 
thing?  I  was  not  slave  enough  to  take  the  money;  and  got  a 
horse  next  year,  on  the  common  terms — but  all  Potosi,  and  the  dig- 
gings new  and  old,  had  not  in  them,  as  I  now  feel,  so  rich  a  gift! 
Poor  Nero's  last  good  days  were  with  us  at  Aberdour  in  1859. 
Twice  or  thrice  I  flung  him  into  the  sea  there,  which  he  didn't  at 
all  like;  and  in  consequence  of  which  he  even  ceased  to  follow  nie 
at  bathing  time,  the  very  strongest  measure  he  could  take — or  p7'e- 
tend  to  take.  For  two  or  three  mornings  accordingly  I  had  seea 
nothing  of  Nero;  but  the  third  or  fourth  morning,  on  striking  out 
to  swim  a  few  yards,  I  heard  gradually  a  kind  of  swashing  behind 
me;  looking  back,  it  was  Nero  out  on  voluntary  humble  partner- 
ship— ready  to  swim  with  me  to  Edinburgh  or  to  the  world's  end 
if  I  liked!  Fife  had  done  his  mistress,  and  still  more  him,  a  great 
deal  of  good.  But,  alas!  in  Cook's  grounds  here,  within  a  month 
or  two  a  butcher's  cart  (in  her  very  sight)  ran  over  him  neck  and 
lungs;  all  winter  he  wheezed  and  suffered;  'Feb.  1st,  I860,' he 
died  (prussic  acid,  and  the  doctor  obliged  at  last!) — I  could  not 
have  believed  my  grief  then  and  since  would  have  been  the  twenti- 
eth part  of  what  it  was — nay,  that  the  want  of  him  would  have  been 
to  me  other  than  a  riddance.  Our  last  midnight-walk  together 
(for  he  insisted  on  trying  to  come),  Jan.  31,  is  still  painful  to  my 
thought.  'Little  dim-white  speck,  of  Life,  of  Love,  Fidelity  and 
Feeling,  girdled  by  the  Darkness  as  of  Night  Eternal! '  Her  tears 
were  passionate  and  bitter;  but  repressed  themselves  as  was  fit,  I 
think  the  first  day.  Top  of  the  garden,  by  her  direction,  Nero  was 
put  under  ground ;  a  small  stone  tablet  with  date  she  also  got — 
which,  broken  by  careless  servants,  is  still  there  (a  little  protected 
now). 

John  Foo'ster,  Esq.,  58  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Chelsea:  Dec.  11, 1849. 

My  dear  Mr.  Forster, — I  died  ten  days  ago  and  was  buried  at  Ken- 
sal  Green;  at  least  you  have  no  certainty  to  the  contrary:  what  is 
the  contrary?  Do  you  mean  to  fulfil  that  promise  of  coming  in 
the  evening? 

Do  you  know  Alfred's  address?  if  so,  forward  the  inclosed, 
please;  it  is  a  piece  of  a  letter  that  may  gratify  him  a  little,  and, 
though  no  great  hand  at  the  '  welfare  of  others '  business,  I  don't 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  279 

mind  giving  a  man  a  little  gratification  wlien  it  can  be  done  at  the 
small  cost  of  one  penny.  Your  affectionate 

Jane  CarlyIlE. 

Oh,  Lord !  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  have  got  a  little  dog,  and  Mr. 
C.  has  accepted  it  with  an  amiability.  To  be  sure,  when  he  comes 
down  gloomy  in  tbe  morning,  or  comes  in  wearied  from  his  walk, 
the  infatuated  little  beast  dances  round  him  on  its  hind  legs  as  I 
ought  to  do  and  can't;  and  he  feels  haltered  and  surprised  by  such 
unwonted  capers  to  his  honour  and  glory. 

LETTER    120. 
John  Forsier,  Esq. ,  58  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Chelsea:  Dec.  1849. 
My  dear  Mr.  Forster, — I  hope  the  newspaper  arrived  safe! 
Henry'  looked  so  excited  when  he  heard  it  was  consigned  to  the 
Post  Office,  and  exclaimed  so  wildly,  '  I  would  not  for  five  pounds 
that  it  were  lost!  Mr.  Forster  would  be  in  such  a  way,'  that  I  quite 
trembled  with  apprehension  about  it  all  the  evening.  Mr.  C.  put 
it  in  with  his  own  hand,  and  out  of  liis  own  head. 

I  am  still  confined  to  the  house  in  a  very  shabby  condition  in- 
deed, and  need  cheering  spectacles  (don't  I  wish  I  may  get  'em?), 
a  sight  of  you  for  example.  Meanwhile  thanks  for  Mulock's  book, 
which  I  read  with  immense  interest.  It  is  long  since  I  fell  in  with 
a  novel  of  this  sort,  all  about  love,  and  nothing  else  whatever.  It 
quite  reminds  one  of  one's  own  love's  young  dream.  I  like  it,  and 
like  the  poor  girl  who  can  still  believe,  or  even  '  believe  that  she  be- 
lieves,' all  that.  God  help  her!  She  will  sing  to  another  tune  if 
she  go  on  living  and  writing  for  twenty  years! 

I  am  desired  by  the  other  Forster,*  the  unreal  it  must  be  since 
j'ou  are  'the  real,'  to  forward  to  you  bis  defence  of  W.  Penn,  as  if 
anybody  out  of  the  family  of  Friends  cared  a  doit  about  W.  Petin. 
For  me,  I  could  never  get  up  a  grain  of  interest  about  any  Quaker, 
dead  or  alive,  except  '  Tawell '  ^  of  the  apple  pips.'* 
All  good  be  with  you. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

•  Mr.  Forster's  servant. 

»  WilUam  Edward  (of  Bradford),  the  ex-Quaker,  now  Her  Majesty's  Minis- 
ter, &c.  &c. 
'  Murderer.  *  Advocate's  excuse. 


280  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 


LETTER    131. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Dec.  31, 1849. 

Dearest  Mrs.  Russell, — To  think  that  I  should  never  have  written 
you  one  line  since  the  distracted  little  note  I  sent  you  from  Notting- 
ham in  July  last,  and  so  often  I  have  thought  of  it  too!  Nay,  I 
actually  began  a  letter  one  day  in  October;  I  had  just  been  writing 
Drumlanrig  Castle,  Thornhill,  on  the  back  of  a  letter  to  Lady  Ash- 
burton,  who  was  on  a  visit  there,  and  had  written  me  out  the  ad- 
dress as  particularly  as  if  I  had  never  heard  of  Drumlanrig  in  my 
life.  And  it  struck  me  as  somethiug  quite  unnatural  that  I  should 
be  writing  Thornhill  after  any  other  name  than  yours;  just  as  when 
I  first  wrote  to  you  I  found  it  so  very  strange  and  sad  to  be  writing 
that  place  after  anyone's  name  but  my  mother's  And  so,  by  way 
of  making  amends  to  nature,  I  began  a  second  letter,  one  to  you  to 
go  by  the  same  post;  but  some  visitor  came  in,  and  what  does  not 
get  done  by  me  at  the  right  moment  is  apt  to  miss  getting  done  al- 
together. 

When  I  wrote  from  Nottingham  I  remember  I  durst  not  trust 
myself  to  tell  you  anything  about  me,  even  if  there  had  been  lei- 
sure for  it.  I  was  in  such  a  nervous  state:  promised  to  Mr.  C.  and 
to  my  own  mind  to  go  to  Scotland,  but  afraid  to  make  my  purpose 
known  lest,  after  all,  I  should  shirk  it  at  the  last  moment,  as  I  had 
done  once  before;  and,  even  if  I  got  into  Scotland,  I  could  not 
have  told  you,  for  my  life,  what  I  was  going  to  do  there,  where  I 
should  go  or  not  go.  Sometimes,  in  brave  moments,  I  thought  of 
visiting  Thornhill  as  well  as  Haddington;  and  then  it  seemed  all 
but  impossible  for  me  ever  to  set  foot  in  either  place — and  if  I  did 
I  was  not  sure  that  I  would  show  myself  to  any  living  person  of 
my  friends,  in  either  the  one  place  or  the  other.  So  I  thought  it 
best  to  say  nothing  to  you  of  my  intentions  till  I  ascertained,  by 
trying,  what  part  of  them  I  could  carry  out.  It  was  not  till  I  was 
in  the  railway  for  Haddington  that  I  was  sure  I  was  really  going 
there.  And  I  did  spend  a  night  there  in  the  principal  inn,  the  win- 
dows of  which  looked  out  on  our  old  house,  without  anyone  sus- 
pecting who  I  was.  I  arrived  at  six  in  the  evening,  and  left  at 
eleven  rext  day,  after  having  walked  over  the  whole  place,  and 
seen  everything  I  wished  to  see — except  the  people.  I  could  not 
have  stood  their  embraces,  and  tears,  and  'all  that  sort  of  thing,' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  281 

without  breaking  down  entirely;  so  I  left  that  part  of  the  business 
till  the  agitation,  caused  by  the  sight  of  the  old  place,  should  have 
subsided,  and  I  could  return  with  my  nerves  in  good  order. 
Which  I  did  for  three  days,  after  having  been  six  weeks  in  Fife  and 
other  places,  with  which  I  had  no  associations  either  sad  or  gay.  It 
was  the  same  when  I  went  to  Annandale;  till  the  last  moment  I 
was  not  sure  I  could  go,  and  would  not  have  gone  but  for  the  pain 
I  was  going  to  give  my  husband's  family  by  passing  them  by. 
Actually  when  I  left  Edinburgh  for  Ecclefechan,  I  did  not  know 
whether  the  railway  went  through  Thoi'nhill!  had  not  dared  to 
satisfy  myself!  and  at  all  the  stations  after  I  got  into  Dumfriesshire 
I  kept  ray  eyes  shut,  This  will  sound  to  you  like  sheer  madness; 
but  it  was  no  more  than  extreme  nervousness,  which  I  could  not 
control,  and  so  must  be  excused  for.  I  stayed  only  two  days  at 
Scotsbrig,  and  then  hurried  on  to  Manchester,  where  I  was  detained 
by  severe  illness.  Another  time  it  will  not  be  so  bad,  I  hope;  and 
I  shall  behave  more  like  a  rational  woman.  You  may  believe  I  got 
little  good  of  the  country,  under  such  circumstances:  I  returned  to 
London  so  ill,  and  continued  so  ill,  so  long  a  time,  that  I  got  into 
the  way  of  doing  nothing  I  could  possibly  help;  and  so  it  happened 
that,  having  lightened  my  conscience  of  the  half-sovereign  which  a 
Miss  Skinner  undertook  to  convey  to  you,  I  postponed  writing  till 
— now ! 

If  anniversaries  be,  in  many  respects,  painful  things,  they  are 
useful  at  least  in  putting  orderly  people,  like  me,  on  settling  up 
their  duties  as  well  as  their  accounts.  And  so  I  am  busier  this 
week  than  for  months  back,  bringing  up  my  correspondences,  &c., 
«fec.  Fortunately  I  am  on  foot,  and  even  able  to  go  out  a  little  in 
the  forenoon,  though  the  frost  is  hard  enough.  I  seem  to  have  got 
off,  this  winter,  with  only  three  weeks'  confinement.  For  the  rest, 
the  pleasantest  fact  in  my  life  for  a  good  while  is,  that  I  have  got  a 
beautiful  little  dog,  that  I  hope  I  will  not  make  such  a  fool  of 

myself  with,  as  Mrs.  M used  to  make  of  herself  with — what 

was  the  object's  name?  He  is  not,  of  course,  either  so  pretty  or  so 
clever  as  Shandy,  and  if  he  were  I  should  not  think  so;  but  he  is 
'better  than  I  deserve,'  as  Coleridge  said  of  his  cold  tea;  and  I  like 
him  better  than  I  choose  to  show  publicly.  The  sad  part  of  the 
business  is  that  I  dare  not  take  him  out  with  me  without  a  chain, 
for  fear  of  the  '  dog-stealers,'  who  are  a  numerous  and  active  body. 

I  am  sending  you,  for  good  luck,  a  book,  which  I  hope  you  will 
get  some  amusement  out  of — perhaps  the  best  New  Year's  gift  one 


m  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

can  make — a  little  amusement  I  mean.  The  two  bits  of  things,  for 
Margaret  and  Mary,  you  will  give  them  with  my  kind  remem- 
brance, and  the  Post-OflBce  Order  I  need  not  point  out  the  use  of, 
God  bless  you,  dear  Mrs.  Russell,  with  love  to  your  husband  and 
father. 

I  am  ever  your  affectionate 

Jake  Carlyle. 

Please  tell  me  how  old  Mary  stands.  When  is  her  money  due? 
I  always  forget. 

LETTER  122. 

'Latter-Day  Pamphlets'  had  at  last,  winter,  1849,  resolved  them- 
selves into  that  form;  and  were  to  be  published  by  Chapman; 
Forster,  he,  and  I  walking  together  (I  very  sad  and  heavy)  towards 
Chapman's  house,  which  I  did  not  enter,  on  cold  windy  Sunday 
(Chapman  with  the  rough  MSS.  in  his  pocket):  this  I  can  still 
recollect;  and  that  my  resolution  was  taken  and  Chapman's  not 
doubted  of — but  not  the  month  or  day.  Probably  after  December, 
on  which  day  Nigger  Question  (in  '  Eraser ')  had  come  out  with 
execrative  shrieks  from  several  people — J.  S.  Mill  for  one ;  who  in- 
deed had  personally  quite  parted  from  me,  a  year  or  two  before,  I 
knew  not  and  to  this  day  know  not  why;  nor  in  fact  ever  much 
inquired,  since  it  was  his  silly  pleasure,  poor  Mill! 

First  '  Latter-Day '  dated  '  Feby  1 '  had  come  out  January  29  and 
been  sent  to  me  at  'The  Grange';  where  with  Robert  Lowe  and 
Delane  I  recollect  being  for  a  day  or  two — and  ultimately  having  a 
pleasant  wise  kind  of  night  with  Milnes  as  the  one  other  guest; 
'  Boreas '  the  lady's  arch  designation  for  me  as  we  talked !  Pam- 
phlet 1st  was  read  by  both  the  Lady  A and  Milnes  next  day  in 

the  railway  as  we  all  journeyed  up ;  remarks  few  or  none.  I  was 
to  be  very  busy  thenceforth  till  the  chaos  of  the  MSS.  was  all  got 
spun  out  into  distinct  webs — and  after  that  till  I  tired,  which  was 
soon  after,  essential  impulse  being  spent  there. 

In  this  short  absence,  I  have  no  letter,  except  this  which  Nero 
wrote  me,  dear  little  clever  dog!  'Columbine'  is  the  black  cat, 
with  whom  he  used  to  come  waltzing  in,  directly  on  the  dining- 
room  door  opening,  in  the  height  of  joy;  like  Harlequin  and  Col- 
umbine, as  I  once  heard  remarked  and  did  not  forget,  '  Mrs. 
Lindsay,'  I  believe,  is  a  sister  of  Miss  Wynne's.  'Small  beings,' 
Mazzlni's  name  for  two  roasted  larks  she  would  often  dine  on, 
especially  when  by  herself!  For  smallness,  grace,  salubrity  and 
ingenuity,  I  have  never  seen  such  human  diners. — T.  C. 

To  T,  Carlyle,  The  Grange,  Alresford,  Hants. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Tuesday,  Jan.  29, 1850. 
Dear  Master,— I  take  the  liberty  to  write  to  you  myself  (my  mis- 
tress being  out  of  the  way  of  writing  to  you  she  says)  that  you  may 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  283 

know  Columbine  and  I  are  quite  well,  and  play  about  as  usual. 
There  was  no  dinner  yesterday  to  speak  of;  I  bad  for  my  share 
only  a  piece  of  biscuit  that  might  have  been  round  the  world;  and 
if  Columbine  got  anything  at  all,  I  didn't  see  it.  I  made  a  grab  at 
one  of  two  'small  beings'  on  my  mistress's  plate;  she  called  them 
heralds  of  the  morn;  but  my  mistress  said,  'Don't  you  wish  you 
may  get  it? '  and  boxed  my  ears.  I  wasn't  taken  to  walk  on  ac- 
count of  its  being  wet.  And  nobody  came,  but  a  man  for  '  burial 
rate';  and  my  mistress  gave  him  a  rowing,  because  she  wasn't  go- 
ing to  be  buried  here  at  all.  Columbine  and  I  don't  mind  where 
we  are  buried. 

This  is  a  fine  day  for  a  run ;  and  I  hope  I  may  be  taken  to  see 
Mohe  and  Dumm.  They  are  both  nice  well-bred  dogs,  and  always 
so  glad  to  see  me ;  and  the  parrot  is  great  fun,  when  I  spring  at 
her;  and  Mrs.  Lindsay  has  always  such  a  lot  of  bones,  and  doesn't 
mind  Mohe  and  Dumm  and  me  eating  them  on  the  carpet.  I  like 
Mrs.  Lindsay  very  much. 

Tuesday  evening. 
Dear  Master, — My  mistress  brought  my  chain,  and  said  'come 
along  with  me,  while  it  shined,  and  I  could  finish  after.'  But  she 
kept  me  so  long  in  the  London  Library,  and  other  places,  that  I  had 
to  miss  the  post.  An  old  gentleman  in  the  omnibus  took  such  no- 
tice of  me!  He  looked  at  me  a  long  time,  and  then  turned  to  my 
mistress,  and  said  '  Sharp,  isn't  he? '  And  my  mistress  was  so  good 
as  to  say,  'Oh  yes!'  And  then  the  old  gentleman  said  again,  'I 
knew  it!  easy  to  see  that!'  And  he  put  his  hand  in  his  hind- 
pocket,  and  took  out  a  whole  biscuit,  a  sweet  one,  and  gave  it  me 
in  bits.  I  was  quite  sorry  to  part  from  him,  he  was  such  a  good 
judge  of  dogs.  Mr.  Greig  from  Canadagua  and  his  wife  left  cards 
while  we  were  out.  Columbine  said  she  saw  them  through  the 
blind,  and  they  seemed  nice  people. 

Wednesday. 
I  left  off,  last  night,  dear  master,  to  be  washed.  This  morning  I 
have  seen  a  note  from  you,  which  says  you  will  come  tomorrow. 
Columbine  and  I  are  extremely  happy  to  hear  it;  for  then  there 
will  be  some  dinner  to  come  and  go  on.  Being  to  see  you  so  soon, 
no  more  at  present  from  your 

Obedient  little  dog, 

Nero. 


284  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  123. 

To  Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Wednesday,  Feb.  27, 1850. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Russell, — Perhaps  Mr.  C.  may  be  in  Scotland  this 
coming  month;  you  may  have  seen  by  the  newspapers  that  one 
party  of  the  Aberdeen  students  want  him  for  their  Lord  Rector, 
the  others  wanting  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  who  will  suit  the  purpose 
better,  I  should  think.  If  Mr.  C.  be  elected,  he  must,  in  common 
civility  to  his  admiring  boys,  go  and  make  them  a  speech,  and 
come  back  again.  A  long  journey  for  so  brief  a  purpose!  and  at 
an  inconvenient  time,  when  he  is  bothering  with  his  pamphlets. 
So  he  rather  wishes  the  Duke  may  be  the  happy  man. 

The  great  delight  of  my  life  at  present  is  the  little  dog  I  think  I 
told  you  of.  It  was  stolen  for  a  whole  day;  but  escaped  back  to 
me  on  its  own  four  legs.  Mr.  C.  asked  while  it  was  a-missing: 
'What  will  you  be  inclined  to  give  the  dog-stealers,  for  bringing  it 
back  to  you?'  (dog-stealing  being  a  regular  trade  here);  and  I  an- 
swered passionately  with  a  flood  of  tears  '  my  whole  half-year's 
allowance!'  So  you  may  fancy  the  fine  way  I  am  in.  Lady 
Ashburton  has  given  me  the  name  of  Agrippina;  the  wit  of  which 
you  would  not  see  unless  I  told  you  my  dog's  name  was  Nero. 

I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,  if  you  can: — I  saw  at  Auch- 
tertool,  a  slip  of  the  Templand  sweetbriar,  that  had  taken  root 
finely,  brought  by  one  of  those  ladies  I  saw.  If,  at  the  proper 
time  for  slipping,  you  could  get  me  a  little  bit  and  send  it  by  post, 
I  should  be  very  grateful.  I  brought,  or  rather  had  sent,  from 
Haddington,  a  slip  of  the  jessamine  that  grew  over  our  dining-room 
window,  and  another  of  a  Templand  rose,  which  my  mother  took 
with  her  to  Sunny  Bank;  and  both  are  growing  to  my  great  satis- 
faction. 

All  gQod  be  with  you,  dear  Mrs.  Russell. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Carlylb. 

LETTER  124. 

Is  at  Addiscombe,  on  visit  for  a  few  days;  returned  thence,  soon, 
as  will  be  seen.  I  was  too  deep  in  'Latter-Day  Pamphlets '  to  ac- 
company. '  Poor  orphan  '  was  to  me  abundantly  ridiculous,  though 
lost  to  any  stranger.  Willie  Donaldson  and  Mrs  (usually  called 
Peg)  Irrin,  crossing  Solway  sands,  with  their  small  cargo  of  mer- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  285 

chandises  in  their  wheezy  little  equipage,  fancy  themselves,  at  one 
moment,  lost  utterly;  but  are  not,  and  are  overheard  in  dialogue: 

William:  'O  Paig,  Paig,  a  misspaint  life!'  Peg  (as  if  in  solilo- 
quy): '  What'U  become  of  the  poor  orphin  at  home?' — their  only 
child  '  Bett,"  a  loudhaveril  of  a  lass,  against  whom  this  bit  of  pathos 
was  remembered. 

Willie  was  an  Aberdeen  man;  probably  a  carpenter  before  en- 
listing; had  fought  at  the  Bunker  Hill  business;  was  now  a  pen- 
sioner, asthmatically  making  rakes,  used  to  lend  his  cart,  on  bon- 
fire-victory occasions  (as  if  in  duty  bound)  to  be  whirled  rapidly 
from  door  to  door,  over  the  village  in  peremptory  demand  of  the 
fuel  necessary. — T.  C, 

To  Master  Nero,  (tinder  cover  to)  T.  Carlyle,  Esq. ,  Chelsea, 

Addiscombe:  Wednesday,  March  20, 1850. 

My  'poor  orphan!'  My  dear  good  little  dog!  How  are  you? 
How  do  they  use  you?  Above  all,  where  did  you  sleep?  Did 
they  put  you  to  bed  by  yourself  in  my  empty  room,  or  did  you 
'cuddle  in'  with  your  surviving  parent?  Strange  that  amidst  all 
my  anxieties  about  you,  it  should  never  have  struck  me  with  whom 
were  you  to  sleep;  never  once,  until  I  was  retiring  to  bed  myself 
without  you  trotting  at  my  heels!  Still,  darling,  I  am  glad  I  did 
not  take  you  with  me.  If  there  had  been  nothing  else  in  it,  the 
parrot  *  alone  was  sufficient  hindrance;  she  pops  'all  about;'  and 
for  certain  5'ou  would  have  pulled  her  head  off;  and  then  it  would 
have  been  '  all  over '  with  you  and  me.  They  would  have  hated 
us  ' intensely! ' 

The  lady  for  whom  I  abandoned  you — to  whom  all  family  ties 

yield — is  pretty  well  again,  so  far  as  I  see.     She  is  very  kind,  and 

in  good  spirits;  so  my  absence  from  you  has  all  the  compensation 

possible.     But  I  shall  be  glad  to  receive  your  affectionate  caresses 

to-morrow.     Kiss  your  father  for  me. 

Ever  your  loving 

Agrippina. 
LETTER  125. 

Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries. 

Chelsea:  Sunday,  April  1850. 
My  dear  Jane, — The  spirit  moves  me  to  write  you  a  letter  this 
morning;  if  I  begin  with  excuses,  the  impulse  will  get  overlaid  by 
the  difficulty  of  the  thing,  and  slick  short  in  a  mere  '  good  inten- 
tion; '  so  here  goes  '  quite  promiscuously.'    I  have  little  to  tell  you 

>  Lady  A.'s  '  green  chimera.' 


286  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

worth  even  a  penny  stamp;  oneself — at  least  myself — is  a  sort  of 
Irish- bog  subject  in  which  one  is  in  danger  of  sinking  overhead; 
common  prudence  commands  therefore  to  '  keep  out  of  that,'  what- 
ever else;  and  my  days  do  not  pass  amidst  people  and  things  so 
interesting,  in  themselves,  as  to  be  worth  writing  about  to  one  safe 
and  sound  on  the  outside  of  all  that,  as  you  are.  What  good 
would  it  do  you,  for  example,  to  have  given  the  '  most  graphic ' 
description  of  the  great  '  flare  up  '  we  had  at  the  Wedgwoods  yes- 
terday— where  all  the  notabilities  Mrs.  W.  had  ever  got  a  catch  at 
were  hauled  in  '  at  one  fell  swoop,'  making  a  sort  of  Tower  of 
Babel  concern  of  it;  that  has  left  nothing  behind  for  me,  '  as  one 
solitary  individual,'  but  a  ringing  in  my  ears,  and  a  dull  headache! 
What  a  tenacity  there  must  be  i-n  human  nature,  that  people  can 
go  on  to  the  oldest  age  with  that  sort  of  thing!  The  young  ladies 
in  wreaths  and  white  muslins  with  'the  world  all  before  them 
where  to  choose  ' — a  husband— those  one  can  understand  delighting 
in  such  gatherings ;  as  a  young  Irish  lady  told  a  friend  of  mine,  '  I 
go  wherever  I  am  invited,  however  much  I  may  dislike  the  people 
who  ask  me;  for  nobody  knows  on  whose  carpet  one's  lot  may  be! ' 
But  the  people  who  have  already  taken  up  their  lot  and  found  it 
(as  who  does  not^)  a  rather  severe  piece  of  work,  what  they  get  or 
expect  in  such  scenes  to  compensate  the  cost  and  fatigue  I  have  no 
conception.  I  was  sitting  beside  old  Mrs.  Fletcher  of  Edinburgh 
last  night — she  is  seventy-four,  I  believe — when  old  Sir  R.  Inglis 
was  brought  up  to  her,  'to  renew  their  acquaintance.'  'I  dare 
hardly  say,'  said  Sir  Robert,  '  how  long  I  believe  it  to  be  since  I 
had  last  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  in  society.'  '  It  is  just  forty- 
one  years,'  replied  Mrs.  Fletcher!  and  these  two  old  people  did  not 
burst  into  tears  or  'go  aboot  worship'  but  fell  to  talking  trivialities 
just  like  the  young  ones!  Well  I  shall  be  dead  before  I  am  any- 
thing like  as  old  as  Mrs.  Fletcher,  and  I  shall  not  wait  till  I  am 
dead  to  retire  from  public  life.  My  beau-ideal  of  existence  this 
long  while  has  been  growing  farther  and  farther  from  that  '  getting 
on '  or  rather  '  got  on '  in  society  which  is  the  aim  of  so  much  fe- 
male aspiration  and  effort! 

I  suppose  John  will  be  coming  back  soon  now,  and  that  will  be 
one  good  thing.  I  have  a  little  dog  that  I  make  more  fuss  about 
than  beseems  a  sensible  woman.  The  next  time  I  go  to  Scotland 
he  shall  accompany  me,  and  see  if  he  don't  '  ingrush  himself  with 
the  people ' !  He  walks  with  me,  this  creature,  and  sleeps  with  me, 
and  sits  with  me— 3o  I  am  no  longer  alone  any  more  than  you  are 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  387 

with  your  bairns — though  the  company  is  different!  mine  has  one 
advantage  however;  it  needs  no  sewing  for,  and  then,  too,  I  am 
troubled  with  no  anxiety  about  its  prospects  in  life. 

An  old  East  Lothian  friend  turned  up  for  me  lately  who  comes  a 
great  deal  and  makes  terrible  long  stays.  The  last  time  I  had  seen 
her  she  was  riding  away  in  bridal  finery  beside  her  artillery  officer 
husband;  I  found  her  now,  after  thirty  years  and  odd,  without 
teeth,  all  wrinkled,  in  weeds  for  that  same  husband,  whom,  how- 
ever, she  had  long  been  separated  from.  So  goes  the  world !  Here 
is  a  specimen  of  a  new  sort  of  lady's  work — the  embroidery  is  cut 
out  and  stiched  on — it  is  done  verj^  fast. 

With  kind  regards  to  James, 

Ever  your  affectionate 

J.  C. 

LETTER  136. 
To  Mrs.  Russell,  ThornhiU. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  July  15,  1850. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Russell, — I  could  give  myself  a  good  whipping 
(with  a  few  side  strokes  to  the  getters-up  of  our  new  Post  Office 
regulations),  for  having  let  the  14th  pass  without  any  remembrance 
of  me  to  old  Mary.  But  it  is  myself  who  am  the  chief  delinquent; 
for  I  might  have  sent  my  packet  to  you  any  day  of  the  week,  who 
would  not  have  been  too  puritanical  to  transmit  it  to  her  on  the 
Sunday.  I  did  not  think  of  that,  however,  till  too  late,  having  not 
yet  got  farailiari.sed  to  these  new  regulations;  it  was  only  on  Fi'iday 
that  it  struck  my  stupidity,  a  letter  despatched  that  night  v,^ould  not 
be  delivered  any  longer  on  Sunday.  Better  late  than  never,  any- 
how; so  I  send  to-day  five  shillings  for  a  pair  of  new  shoes  to  Ma- 
ry, or  anything  else  you  may  please  to  invest  it  in,  and  some  lace 
for  Margaret  to  put  on  a  cap. 

Two  of  tlie  roses  you  sent  me  are  in  a  promising  way,  and  also. 
the  polyanthuses,  but  the  third  rose  is  clean  dead,  and  the  sweet- 
briar  too,  I  fear,  is  past  hope;  it  did  well  at  first — too  well,  I  sup- 
pose— for  it  hurried  itself  to  put  out  leaves  when  it  should  have 
been  quietly  taking  root — a  procedure  not  confined  to  sweet-briars; 
one  sees  many  human  beings  go  off  in  the  same  fashion. 

There  has  been  a  dreadful  racket  here  this  season — worse,  1 
think,  tlian  in  any  London  .sea.son  I  ever  lived  through — it  has 
seemed  to  me  sometimes  as  if  the  town  must  burst  into  si)ontane- 
ous  combustion.    All  the  people  of  my  acquaintance  who  come  to 


288  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Loudon  occasionally,  have  come  this  year  at  cue  time,  spoiling  the 
pleasure  I  should  have  had  in  seeing  them  individually  by  present- 
ing themselves  all  in  a  rush — in  fact,  our  house,  for  two  months 
back,  has  been  like  an  inn,  only  '  no  money  taken,'  and  I  feel  like 
a  landlady  after  an  election  week.  And  the  balls  and  parties  all 
round  one,  to  certain  of  which  I  have  had  to  go,  for  the  sake  of 
what  is  called  '  keeping  up  one's  acquaintance,'  have  been  enough 
to  churn  one  into  a  sort  of  human  '  trifle.'  Peel's  death  came  like 
a^black  cloud  over  this  scene  of  so-called  'gaieties,'  for  a  few  days 
but  only  for  a  few  daj^s.  Nothing  leaves  a  long  impression  here. 
People  dare  not  let  themselves  think  or  feel  in  this  centre  of  frivolity 
and  folly;  they  would  go  mad  if  they  did,  and  universally  commit 
suicide;  for  to  '  take  a  thocht  and  mend '  is  far  from  their  intention. 

I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done  next,  now  that  the  town  is 
emptying,  and  my  husband  in  the  act  of  finishing  his  last  pamphlet. 
I  suppose  he  will  go  away  somewhere,  but  where  or  when  will  not 
be  known  till  the  day  before  he  does  it.  My  old  Helen  (now  gone 
to  the  dogs)  used  to  beg  pathetically  that  she  might  be  '  told  in  time 
to  wash  all  his  shirts,'  but  he  couldn't  tell  what  he  didn't  know  him- 
self till  the  eleventh  hour.  Probably  he  will  be  in  Annandale 
wherever  else;  for  myself,  I  have  an  arden  tand  wholesome  desire 
to  get  my  house  cleaned,  under  my  own  eyes  this  year,  for  doesn't 
it  need  it!  Besides,  I  had  such  a  fagging  about  last  year  that  I  feel 
no  need  of  stirring  at  all,  and  Loudon  is  always  pleasantest  to  me 
when  it  is  what  is  called  '  empty. '  For  my  health,  it  is  rather 
better  than  last  year — not  much,  but  I  make  it  do. 

All  good  be  with  you  and  yours,  dear  Mrs.  Russell. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  Cablyle. 


LETTER  127. 

'  Latter-Day  Pamphlets '  finished  and  safe  behind  me,  I  go  for 
Wales,  to  Redwood,  "  last  day  of  July '  it  would  seem,  on  which 
evening,  till  near  noon  of  next  day,  I  was  "Walter  Savage  Landor's 
guest,  much  taken  with  the  gigantesque,  explosive,  but  essentially 
chivalrous  and  almost  heroic  old  man.  In  his  poor  lodging,  3 
Rivers  Street,  Bath,  and  his  reception  and  treatment  of  me  there, 
I  found  something  which  I  could  call  '  ducal '  or  higher  than  if  he 
had  been  a  duke,  and  still  palatial.  To  Bristol,  to  Cardiff,  to  good 
solitary  Redwood's  country  cottage  next  day.  There  for  perhaps  a 
month — solitary  and  silent. — T.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  289 


To  T.  Carlyle,  Cowhridge. 

Sunday  night,  Aug.  4, 1850. 
•  Oh  dear  mel '  It  looks  already  a  month  since  you  went  away, 
counting  by  the  number  of  things  I  have  pulled  to  pieces,  and  the 
weary  hours  1  have  lain  awake,  and  the  lonely  thoughts  that  have 
persecuted  me.  But  to  lie  awake  at  nights,  and  to  have  lonely 
thoughts  by  night  and  by  day  is  surely  nothing  new  or  strange  for 
me,  that  I  should  think  it  worth  recording  at  this  date!  And  for 
the  work,  it  will  not  be  irksome,  but  '  a  good  joy,'  such  good  joy 
as  I  am  still  susceptible  of — when  it  gets  into  the  stage  of  restoring 
to  order.  The  house  has,  in  fact,  been  rushing  down  towards  chaos 
during  the  last  year  ;  a  certain  smoothing  of  the  surface  kept  up; 
and  underneath,  dirt  and  confusion  really  too  bad.  But  it  is  in  the 
way  of  getting  itself  rehabilitated  now;  and  I  shall  try  in  time  com- 
ing to  be  a  better  housewife  at  least;  that  career  being  always  open 
to  talent.  I  remember,  when  I  was  very  ill  of  a  sore  throat  at 
Craigenputtock,  thinking  that,  if  I  died,  all  my  drawers  would  be 
found  in  the  most  perfect  order;  and  there  was  more  satisfaction  in 
the  thought  than  you  (a  man)  can  conceive.  Curious  to  think  how 
all  would  have  gone,  if  I  had  died  then!  But  you  will  like  better 
some  news  than  '  bottomless  speculations  of  that  sort.' 

Well,  till  Thursday  night  I  had  no  speech  with  any  mortal;  then, 
about  eight  o'clock,  walked  in  Mrs.  N ,'  of  all  undesired  peo- 
ple! My  first  feeling  was  that  I  was  intruded  upon  by  'an  im- 
proper female;'  but  as  the  interview  proceeded,  her  calm  self- 
approving  manner,  and  radiant  face — radiant  as  with  conscious 
virtue  (!)  really — quite  subjugated  me,  and  I  began  to  fancy  it  must 
be  'all  right'  for  her,  though  looking  so  very  shocking  to  me. 

N came  to  take  her  home;  in  tearing  spirits.     He  theatrically 

kissed  the  tips  of  my  fingers  when  I  shook  hands  with  him,  and 

then  kissed  Mrs.  N on  the  mouth!  and  said,   'Well,  darling! 

how  did  you  get  here?'     A  more  comfortable  well-doing-like  pair 
one  could  not  wish  to  seel 

On  Friday  night  Count  Reichenbach  came,  a  shade  less  silent 
and  woeljegone.  Then  Masson.  I  am  going  to  take  Count  Reichen- 
bach to  Mrs.  Austin's  with  me,  if  she  permit — will  write  to-morrow 
to  propose  the  thing  for  Wednesday  or  Thursday  (to  give  myself  a 

>  G N.'s  wife.     Once  a  very  pretty  little  woman,  but   now  getting 

stranded  on  a  most  miserable  shore  1    Thaukato ,  <S;c.  &c.    Faugh  1—T.C. 

I.-13 


290  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

day's  recreation  from  my  earthquakery).     I  am  sorry  for  the  man, 
he  looks  so  lost. 

To-day  (being  Sunday)  I  told  Elizabeth  to  take  herself  off  for  the 
whole  day  if  she  chose,  that  I  might  have  no  proposals  to  '  go  out ' 
during  the  week,  when  I  intend  that  she  shall  work.  Most  likely 
no  one  would  come,  I  thought;  and  if  anyone  did,  I  would  simply 
not  open  the  door.  I  was  standing  with  hands  all  over  whiting, 
having  just  made  a  brilliant  job  of  the  curtain  rods,  when  there 
came  a  rap  and  ring — no  reply;  I  held  Nero's  nose  that  he  might 
not  bark;  again  a  rap,  very  loud;  then,  after  a  long  pause,  both  to- 
gether as  loud  as  could  be.  Decidedly  the  individual  would  get  in. 
I  kept  quite  still;  '  surely  it  is  over  now,'  I  was  just  saying  when 
the  knocking  and  ringing  recommenced,  and  went  on  at  intervals 
for,  I  am  sure,  ten  minutes!  I  could  hardly  help  screaming,  it 
made  me  so  nervous.  At  last  all  was  quiet;  and,  some  quarter  of 
an  hour  after  the  uproar,  I  went  to  look  in  the  letter-box  if  the 
horrid  visitor  had  left  a  card.  When  I  looked  in,  I  met,  oh  mercy, 
a  pair  of  fox-eyes  peering  at  me  through  the  slit.  I  threw  the  door 
open  in  a  rage  (my  hands  had  been  washed  by  this  time);  and  a 
coarse-featured  red-haired  squat  woman  exclaimed ;  '  She  will  com 

now,  please  no  to  shut;  Mees  S com.'     '  What  is  it?  '  I  asked 

sharply.  'Oh  she  sit  in  so  small  house  at  corner!  I  run!  keep 
open!  no  shoot! '    And  off  she  went;  and  in  three  minutes  brought 

back  Miss  J S .'    I  felt  ready  to  strangle  her  in  the  first 

moment;  but  she  looked  so  pale  and  grave,  like  the  widow  of 
Chopin,  and  was  so  friendly,  and  unconscious,  to  all  appearance,  of 
my  dislike  to  her,  that  I  behaved  quite  amiably  after  all.  She  had 
asked  at  Chalmers'  door  if  we  were  all  gone;  and  the  manservant 
said  you  were  gone,  that  Elizabeth  had  told  him  you  were  to  go  first 
to  Bath,  then  to  Scotland,  then  to  the  Black  Sea! !  And  at  the 
stick-shop  at  the  corner  the  woman  assured  her  '  I  always  came 
home  at  five  to  my  dinner '  (it  was  then  half  after  four) ;  so  she  had 
meant  to  wait,  and  sent  her  maid  to  keep  watch! 

A  letter  for  you,  from  Chorley,'  not  read  by  me  for  the  world! 

And  an  invitation  from  that  barenecked  hooing  gawk  Stewart . 

I  might  have  sent  word  you  were  away;  but  he  deserves  to  be 
left  for  speculating,  for  his  impudence — sitting  in  Sloane  Street, 

1  A  hoarse-voiced,  restless,  invalid  Scotch  lady,  of  some  rank,  mostly  wan- 
dering about  on  the  Continent,  entertaining  lions,  and  Piano  Chopin,  &c.  &c., 
but  always  swooping  down  upon  London  and  us  now  and  then. 

2  Come  back  from  Spain,  I  suppose. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  291 

and  summoning  you  to  him  to  be  presented  to  his  grand-lady  wife, 
as  he  thinks  her;  a  '  rum  '  lady  that  could  marry  the  like  of  him! 

For  me  a  note  from  Emily  Baring,  an  invitation;  very  kind;  but 
necessarily  answered  in  the  negative.  It  is  too  long  and  expensive 
a  journey  for  a  few  days;  and  in  my  present  complication  I  could 
not  be  absent  longer  than  two  or  three  days.  Besides,  Geraldine  is 
still  hanging  in  the  wind. 

Miss  W likes  '  Jesuitism  '  best  of  all  the  pamphlets;  so  does 

Masson — 'such  an   admirable    summing  up;'  just  what  I  said. 
Your  mother's  copy  was  sent  on  Thursday. 

Took  morphine  last  night,  and  slept  some.  A  letter  this  morn- 
ing from  Mrs.  Macready,  two  little  sheets  all  crossed!  inviting  me 
to  Lyme  Regis.     Nero  desires  his  respectful  regards. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane, 

LETTER  128. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Cowhridge,  Glamorganshire. 

Chelsea:  Thursday  night,  Aug.  22, 1850. 

Now,  dear!  I  have  done  a  fair  day's  work  (of  sewing  chiefly), 
and  can  sit  down  with  a  certain  leisure  to  write  you  a  peaceable 
little  letter.  Yes,  yes;  I  have  '  composed  myself,'  am  '  quiet.'  You 
shall  have  no  more  wail  or  splutter  from  me  on  this  occasion.  If 
I  had  been  an  able-bodied  woman  instead  of  a  thoroughly  broken- 
down  one,  I  should  surely  have  had  sense  and  reticence  enough 
not  to  fret  you,  in  your  seclusion,  with  details  of  my  household 
'worry.'  But  that  dreadful  Elizabeth '  'murdered  sleep; '  I  'lost 
my  happetite,'  and  became  so  weak  and  excited  that  I  was  really  no 
more  responsible  for  what  I  wrote  than  a  person  in  a  brain  fever 
would  have  been.  For  the  last  three  nights  I  have  been  getting 
into  sleep  again  without  morphia,  which  had  become  worse  than 
useless;  and  for  the  last  three  days  I  have  eaten  some  dinner  '  to 
speak  of,'  and  now  I  begin  to  feel  sane  again,  and,  as  John  says, 
'  to  see  my  way.' 

Geraldine  left  me  last  night,  very  unwillingly.  A  little  pressing 
would  have  made  her  throw  over  Letty*  altogether,  and  remain 
here  for  an  indefinite  time.     It  was  not  my  wish,  however,  that 


*  A  servant  who  had  given  trouble. 

'  Letty ,  an  intrusive,  stupid,  ugly,  fat  Berlin  Jewess,  coursing  about  on 

the  strength  of  sending  windy  gossip  to  tho  newspapers  then. 


293  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

she  should  protract  her  stay  longer  than  she  had  already  done;  the 
pleasure  of  having  her  to  talk  with,  and  to  rub  my  feet,  was  not — 
at  least  would  not  have  continued  to  be — a  sufficient  compensation 
for  the  additional  trouble  of  a  visitor  in  the  house,  with  no  servant 
but  a  little  girl  who  had  '  never  been  out  before,'  who  could  not 
cook  a  morsel  of  food  or  make  a  bed,  or  do  any  civilised  thing, 
without  having  me  at  her  heels.     One  does  not  like,  if  one  can 
stand  on  one's  legs  at  all,  to  see  one's  visitor  doing  servant's  work; 
and  besides  poor  Geraldine  can't  cook  or  make  a  bed  any  more 
than  the  girl  wlio  has  '  never  been  out; '  and  at  the  same  time  she 
is  nothing  like  so  indifferent  as  I  am  to  eating,  and  '  all  that  sort  of 
thing.'     And  then  to  get  on  with  'the  rowans,'  and  her  here,  was 
impossible.     When  I  was  not  cooking  in  the  kitchen,  or  in  some 
way  providing  for  the  present  moment,  I  must  'lie  down'  and 
have  my  feet  rubbed.     By  myself  I  get  on  quite  nicely  with  the 
little  maid,  who,  now  that  I  have  got  her  to  tidy  herself,  and  that 
she  is  no  longer  frightened,  has  developed  a  curious  likeness  to  your 
sister  Janef,  which  makes  me  feel  quite  friendly  towards  her.     Not 
being  to  keep  her,  I  put  off  no  time  in  training  her,  but  use  her 
up  to  the  best  advantage.     To-day,  for  example,  she  has  been  clean- 
ing out  the  kitchen,  closets,  and  presses,  where  many  an  abomina- 
tion came  to  light,  showing  new  cause  why  the  '  no-interference ' 
principle  should  never  more  get  '  carried  out '  in  this  house,  or  any 
house  of  which  I  am  the  mistress.     To-morrow,  or  next  day,  I 
shall  probably  hear  from  Miss  Darby  something  final  as  to  the  Es- 
sex girl  she  had  in  view  for  me.     I  feel  it  very  kind  of  you  to  offer 
to  take  me  away,  but  I  am  perfectly  clear  that  I  should  be  here 
rather  thau  anywhere  else  just  now.     In  the  first  place,  locking  up 
the  house  would  be  a  foolish  risk  to  run;  there  are  more  loose  peo- 
ple about  here  now  than  when  we  did  so  formerly,  and  we  are 
known  now  to   be  better  worth  robbing  than  we  were  formerly 
thought  to  be ;  and  even  then  it  was  '  a  tempting  of  Providence 
only  to  be  repeated  on  necessity.     I  should  like  very  ill  to  have  the 
house  robbed;  there  are  so  many  odds  and  ends  in  it  that  no  money 
could  replace.     Secondly,  not  foreseeing  (how  could  I?)  that  I  was 
to  be  left  sole  agent  of  my  own  will  and  pleasure,  I  commenced  in 
the  first  week  of  your  absence  a  series  of  operations,  which  I  feel 
my  housewife  honour  concerned  in  bringing,  without  help  or  with 
such  help  as  I  can  get,  to  a  more  or  less  satisfactory  close;  what  I 
have  tumbled  up  and  pulled  down  must  be  restored  to  at  least  the 
habitable  state  I  found  it  in,  and  no  Brownie,  I  guess,  would  do 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  293 

that  for  me  if  I  put  the  house-key  in  my  pocket  and  went  away. 
Thirdly  (a  woman  has  always  three  reasons),  flying  from  the  pres- 
ent inconvenience  would  be  only  postponing  it;  a  servant  must  be 
found  and  set  a-going  in  '  the  right  way '  some  time ;  and  when  bet- 
ter than  now,  when  you  are  out  of  the  road  of  being  bothered  by 
the  initiatory  process?  Would  it  be  preferable  to  arrive  at  home, 
hungry  and  travel-wearied,  with  our  door-key,  to  usher  ourselves 
into  a  dark,  cold,  foodless  house,  and  go  out  the  first  thing  next 
day  to  hunt  up  a  servant?  If  Craik's  woman  could  have  been  en- 
gaged for  any  particular  time,  that  would  have  met  the  last  objec- 
tion. But  my  belief  is  that  they  will  take  her  to  Ireland  and  keep 
her  there  as  long  as  she  will  stay.  At  all  events,  I  can  elicit,  no 
particle  of  certainty  about  her;  and  indeed,  feel  it  indelicate  to 
press  them  on  the  subject.  So  now,  '  compose  yourself,'  and  trou- 
ble your  heart  no  further  with  my  '  difficulties.'  When  I  am  not 
too  ill  for  stirring  about,  as  I  have  not  been  to-day,  and  do  not 
mean  to  be  for  some  time  to  come,  and  when  you  are  not  there  to 
be  put  about  by  them,  I  make  as  light  of  material  difficulties  as  any 
woman  I  know;  find  them,  in  fact,  rather  inspiriting;  it  was  en- 
tirely the  moral  disturbance  from  Elizabeth  that  agitated  me  so 
absurdly  at  the  commencement  of  the  present  mess. 

Fi'iday  morning.— ^o  far  I  had  written  last  night  when  the  clock 
struck  twelve,  and  Nero,  with  his  usual  good  sense,  insisted  on  my 
going  to  bed;  he  had  gone  half  an  hour  before  by  himself,  and  es- 
tablished himself  under  the  bedclothes;  but  he  returned  at  twelve 
and  jumped  till  I  rose  and  followed  him. 

I  have  hardly  anything  to  tell  you  of  the  outer  world.  Mazzini 
is  back  from  Paris,  was  here  on  Tuesday.  The  revolution  in 
Paris  is  postponed  for  the  moment.  It  was  anticipated  that  the 
President's  reception  '  would  have  been,  through — what  shall  I 
say? — bribery  and  so  on,  more  enthusiastic';  then  the  Presi- 
dent would  have  been  emboldened  to  venture  his  great  coup, 
and  the  Communist  party  would  then  have  tried  conclusions 
with  him.  As  it  is,  these  'have  nothing  to  fight  against,' which 
is  surely  very  sad.  Another  concert  ^  had  come  oh:  the  night  be- 
fore, in  which,  at  the  hour  of  commencement,  not  a  performer 
had  arrived,  nor  for  half  an  hour  after.  Then  all  the  gas 
went  suddenly  out;  then  'a  very  fat— what  shall  I  say?— drunk 
woman  fell  on  Mazzini's  neck  and  almost  stifled  him,  upon  my 
honour.'     Then  the  principal  singer  did  not  come  at  all,  and  had 


*  In  aid  of  some  Mazzini  fund,  no  doubt. 


294  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

to  be  brought  par  vive  force  '  in  a  state  of  horrible  drunkenness,' 
and  was  only  sobered  by  Mazzini's  taking  his  hand  and  '  appealing 
to  his  patriotism. '  Then  Mario  and  Grisi  arrived  for'  the  last  act 
without  their  music.  My  late  difficulties  dwindled  into  insignifi- 
cance beside  those  of  Mazzini  with  that  tremendous  concert — '  but 
there  will  be  much  money.' 

Anthony  Sterling  came  up  on  Wednesday,  and  took  Geraldine  to 
the  railway  at  night,  I  not  feeling  at  all  up  to  taking  her  myself. 
Next  morning  he  was  to  start  for  Devonshire  to  have  a  week's 
yachting  with  Mr.  Trelawny. 

Count  Reichenbach  started  for  Belgium  the  end  of  last  week,  as 
mournful-looking  as  he  came.  I  have  seen  no  one  else  lately  ex- 
cept Mrs.  and  Miss  Farrar,  who  called  on  Tuesday,  I  think;  the 
old  lady  in  a  state  for  having  her  patriotism  appealed  to  (it  struck 
me),  and  the  young  one  very  pale,  '  needing  some  outing,'  she  said, 
and  was  to  start  on  a  yachting  expedition  this  day.  I  never  thanked 
you,  I  verily  believe,  for  the  heather,  or  the  peacock's  feather,  but 
they  were  carefully  preserved  nevertheless. 

I  think  they  must  have  an  empty  room  at  Maryland  Street  just 
now,  Helen  being  still  in  Scotland. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  C. 

I  am  sure  the  Nation'^  miscarried  through  no  fault  of  mine. 
After  the  fate  of  the  former  week's  Leader,  I  was  very  careful  to 
put  up  the  paper  firmly,  and  it  was  posted  in  Chelsea  on  Monday. 

LETTER  129. 

To  T.  Carlyle,   Cowbridge,  8.  Wales. 

Chelsea:  Friday,  Aug.  23, 1850. 
My  dear,  my  dear,  my  dear! — I  sent  a  long  letter  off  yesterday, 
knowing  that  for  the  next  few  days  I  should  have  something  like 
the  sack  of  Troy  on  my  hands.  The  sweeps  are  here,  and  the 
whitewashers,  and  the  carpet-beaters !  and  myself  is  at  this  moment 
all  over  breadcrumbs,  from  cleaning  the  parlour  paper,  and— and 
— and — .  Even  Nero  has  the  consideration  to  leave  off  jumping  for 
things,  and  has  retired  into  ' a  place  by  himself.'* 

1  Newspaper  (Ii-ish). 

^  Misanthropic  joiner  in  Dumfries,  whom  we  had  heard  of. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  295 

And  now  'comes  to  pass,'i  a  poor  son  of  Adam'  in  want  of  a 
bathing-cap  'by  return  of  post,'  and  none  nearer  than  Albemarle 
Street  will  please  him!  Well,  I  will  go  after  the  cap,  his  hair  being 
so  long;  but  for  writing,  it  cannot  be  asked  of  me  under  the  present 
distracting  circumstances.  Only  a  word  of  thanks  for  your  long 
letter.  Don't  mind  length,  at  least  only  write  longly  about  your- 
self. The  cocks  that  awake  you ;  everything  of  that  sort  is  very 
interesting.  I  hasten  over  the  cleverest  descriptions  of  extraneous 
people  and  things,  to  find  something  '  all  about '  yourself  '  all  to 
myself.'    But  I  must  not  dawdle. 

Your  affectionate 

Jajhe  Carlyle. 

LETTER  130. 

Left  Wales,  intending  Gloucester,  Liverpool,  Scotsbrig.  Never 
saw  the  good  Redwood  again.  He  died  within  a  year.  I  still  re- 
member him  with  grateful  affection — the  thoroughly  honest  soul. 
First  station  (poor  Redwood's  and  railway's  blame)  had  to  waste 
four  hours  in  reading,  on  the  grass.  Chepstow;  Gloucester  streets 
on  a  Saturday  night.  George  Johnston  (Ecclefechan  schoolmaster), 
unsuccessful  visit  rather.  Break  off  for  Birmingham — Sunday 
night.     To  Liverpool  next  daj' — Ohe! — T.  C. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row :  Friday,  Aug.  30,  1850. 
My  poor  dear! — That  was  the  worst  journey,  'but  one,' I  ever 
read  of.  You  can  perhaps  guess  the  exception.  One  good  thing 
will  come  of  it,  I  hope;  and  that  is  a  certain  sympathy  with 
Quashee!  You  will  be  more  disposed  henceforth  to  grant  to  your 
black  brother  the  compensation  of  unlimited  pumpkins!  Such  is 
indeed  the  only  benefi't  that  I,  '  as  one  solitary  individual,'  ever  get 
from  being  made  excessively  miserable  in  any  particular  way;  it 
develops  a  new  sympathy  in  me  for  another  class  of  human  suf- 
ferers. In  all  other  respects,  I  should  say  that  being  made  exces- 
sively miserable  is  not  for  one's  soul's  good  at  all,  but  the  reverse. 
Natures  strong  and  good  to  begin  with  (that  is,  the  exceptional 
natures),  may  be  '  made  perfect  through  suffering.'  When  one  can 
digest  it,  I  daresay  it  goes  to  fibre;  but  where  the  moral  digestion 
is  unhappily  weak,  the  more  miserable  one  is,  the  more  one  grows 
— 'what  shall  I  say? — bad,  upon  my  honour! ' 

1  Mazzini's  sweep!  {supra).  *  Carlyle  himself. ^J.  A.  F. 


296  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

But  you  would  rather  be  told,  is  the  new  maid  come?  Yes.  She 
arrived  yesterday  unexpectedly  early.  Eliza,  the  young  person, 
who  has  been  '  doing  for  me,'  intended  to  have  her  kitchen  seduc- 
tively clean  for  the  stranger,  and  had  just  tumbled  everything  up, 
and  swashed  the  floor  with  fresh  water,  when  her  successor  came 
to  hand,  with  plenty  of  nice  trunks;  and  we  had  to  shut  her  up  in 
the  spare  room  with  some  sewing  (one  of  her  accomplishments  is 
'  needlework '),  until  she  could  find  a  dry  place  below  for  the  sole 
of  her  foot!  '  With  the  best  intentions,'  &c. !  I  will  venture  no 
opinion  of  her  on  such  short  observation,  further  than  that  she 
looks,  though  rather  youthful,  perfectly  'respectable,'  and  that  her 
manners  are  distinguished  !  so  self-possessed,  and  soft-voiced,  and 
calm,  as  only  English  people  can  be  ! 

The  second  volume  of  Dr.  Chalmers  is  come,  very  bulky,  this 
one  weighs  an  ounce  over  the  two  pounds,  or  I  would  have  sent  it 
at  once  by  post  to  your  motlier,  who,  I  think,  got  the  first  volume. 
There  is  also  come  a  novel,  called  'Alton  Locke,' which  I  flung 
aside  in  my  worry,  as  not  readable;  but  now  I  hear  from  Geraldine, 
whom  the  '  Athenaeum '  has  invited  to  review  it,  that  it  is  the  novel 
of  young  Kingsley;  and,  though  '  too  like  Carlyle,'  a  production  of 
astounding  merit;  so  I  shall  fall  on  it  some  evening. 

For  the  rest,  I  have  nothing  to  tell,  except  '  goot  look '  has  not 
returned  to  me  yet  from  'the  Orient;'  I  surely  never  had  such  a 
run  of  provoking  things  'since  I  kent  the  worl! '  but  it  will  'come 
all  to  the  same  ultimately, '  one  does  hope. 

From  the  Wednesday  night,  when  Geraldine  went  off  with  An- 
thony Sterling,  I  had  no  speech  with  any  one  till  Sunday,  then  I 
made  a  call  at  Miss  Wynne's;  no  one  had  been  here;  and  for  me,  I 
cerco  nessuno.  Then,  again,  I  was  silent  till  Tuesday  evening; 
when  Craik  came,  and  insisted  on  playing  at  chess  with  me.  I 
beat  him  three  games  in  no  time,  and  he  went  away  heavy  and  dis- 
pleased. The  only  person  since  was  Anthony  Sterling,  yesterday, 
rather  bored  by  his  yachting  expedition.  His  wife  was  to  return 
to  Knightsbridge  last  night,  and  he  intended  to  take  her  to  Head- 
ley;  where  Mrs.  Prior  is  coming  or  come,  on  a  visit  of  indefinite 
duration.  The  Irish  business  is  going  on  towards  a  law-suit,  per- 
haps the  best  for  Anthony  that  could  come  of  it.  The  possession 
of  more  money  will  only  add  to  his  troubles ;  but  going  to  law  for 
his  rights  will  be  an  excitement  for  him,  as  good  as  any  other. 

Kindest  regards  to  them  all  at  Scotsbrig. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlyle. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  297 


LETTER  131. 

'For  virtue  ever  is  its  own  reward.'  So  had  a  young  tragic 
poet  written,  but  his  critical  friend  objected,  argued,  &c. ;  upon 
which  the  poor  poet  undertook  to  malie  the  line — 'For  virtue,' etc., 
'  unless  something  very  particular  occur  to  prevent  it.' — John  Mill's 
story. 

'And  he  buried  her  beautiful,  ma'am,'  said  a  certain  housemaid 
to  her  once.  'Cockney  idea  of  a  future  state.' — Allan  Cunning- 
ham. 

'  If  so  obscure  a  person,'  &c.— Lady  Waldegrave,  of  herself. — 
T,  C. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq. ,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea  :  Monday  night,  Sept.  2,  18.50. 

Yes  indeed,  dear,  a  letter  from  you  on  Saturday  night  would 
have  been  more  to  my  purpose  than  the  lot  of  newspapers,  which 
I  never  look  at  except  for  '  a  bird's-ej^e '  glance  at  the  leader,  just  to 
see  how  the  creatures  'get  thi'ough  it,'  and  more  to  my  purpose 
than  even  the  new  '  Copperfleld,' which  came  at  the  same  rush,  and 
which  to  this  hour  remains  uncut;  the  former  one  having  given  me 
no  feeling  but  remorse  for  wasting  mortal  time  on  such  arrant  non- 
sense. But  on  Saturday  night  there  came  no  letter:  both  your 
letters  arrived  together  this  morning,  puzzling  me  extremely  which 
of  them  to  open  first.  It  is  much  to  be  wished  that  one  had  a  post 
that  knew  what  it  was  doing  again;  and  law-makers  that  knew 
what  they  were  doing.  If  I  were  the  Government,  I  should  feel 
rather  ashamed  of  making  regulations  one  month  and  unmaking 
them  the  next;  but  'folk  maun  do  something  for  the  bits  of  bairns' 
(as  Adam  Bogue '  said  when  reproached  with  ruining  himself  in 
racehorses). 

Before  you  receive  this  I  hope  your  mother  will  have  got  the 
volume  of  'Chalmers.'  I  found  on  inquiring  of  the  postmaster  in 
Piccadilly,  when  I  posted  my  last  letter,  on  my  way  to  the  library, 
that  books  of  any  weight  could  be  sent  by  post,  at  the  rate  of  six- 
pence to  the  pound;  so  I  despatched  the  bulky  concern  to-day, 
with  nine  blue  stamps,  and  all  the  newspapers  at  the  same  time, 
deferring  the  writing  of  my  own  letters  to  the  evening,  partly  be- 
cause I  thought  you  had  literature  enough  by  one  post,  and  partly 
because  'I  felt  it  my  duty'  to  go  and  ride  all  the  forenoon  in  an 


1  A  Haddiugtou  farmer. 
13* 


298  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

omnibus,  instead  of  aggravating  the  sickness  I  was    feeling  by 
writiug  or  indoors  work. 

On  my  return  I  learnt  from  Emma  that  'a  gentleman  in  a  car- 
riage with  two  servants '  liad  been  here — names  are  a  thing  she 
does  not  at  all  meddle  with —  but  a  '  Pendennis '  on  the  table  told 
me  that  Darwin  had  returned,  the  first  of  the  Romans!  Yesterday 
I  had  Elizabeth  Pepoli  for  three  hours.  I  wondered  at  the  length 
of  her  visit,  and  wondered  at  the  softness  of  her  manner;  to-day 
the  whole  thing  is  explained;  it  was  our  last  meeting!  I  asked  her, 
'  When  are  you  going? '  and  she  answered,  '  Soon,  but  don't  let  us 
speak  of  that.'  'Well,'  I  said  at  parting,  'I  shall  go  to  you  on 
Tuesday  or  Wednesdaj\'  To-night  is  come  a  note  saying,  'Don't 
come  here,  dear  Jane,  for  you  will  not  find  me! '  Alas!  what  a  way 
to  part!  a  saving  of  emotion  certainly  to  both;  but  should  we  never 
meet  again,  as  is  most  likely,  some  farewell  words  would  have  been 
a  comfort  for  the  survivor  to  recall. 

Pepoli  is  in  depths  of  tribulation  at  present,  through  '  something 
very  particular '  having  occurred  to  prevent  his  virtue  (in  the  case 
of  old  Manfredi)  being  '  its  own  reward.'  (Is  it  not  always  through 
the  virtue  on  which  one  piques  oneself  that  one  gets  over  the 
fingers  in  this  life?)  He  would  take  a  painter  into  his  house,  're- 
gardless of  expense,'  and  of  the  comfort  of  his  wife;  and  having 
played  out  that  freak  of  princely  generosity  without  justice,  and 
old  Manfredi  being  'eventually'  dead,  and  'buried  beautiful,'  the 
Manfredi  relations  in  Bologna  ('if  so  obscure  a  person  can  be  said 
to  have  I'elations ')  institute  a  prosecution  against  Pepoli,  for  hav- 
ing dishonestly  appropriated,  and  made  away  with,  immensely 
valuable  pictures  belonging  to  the  old  man  he  pretended  to  pro- 
tect! ('The  female  Satyrs  suckling  their  young'  was  the  best  of 
these  pictures,  Elizabeth  saj^s,  and  was  sold  for  ten  shillings 
to  keep  Manfredi  in  brown  sugar  which  he  licked.)  The  idea  of 
figuring  as  a  swindler  in  his  native  town  has  taken  possession  of 
Pepoli's  whole  soul,  and  caused  the  cholera ;  but  the  worst  result 
is,  that  it  has  decided  him  to  return  to  Bologna  instead  of  settling 
in  Ancona,  where  Elizabetli  anticipated  fewer  disgusts.  John  Fer 
gus  is  '  better,  but  far  from  well  yet.' 

What  a  dismal  story  is  that  of  the  Curries!  Poor  old  man!  he 
will  surely  die  soon;  the  best  that  could  be  wished  for  him! 

Passing  along  Paradise  Row  the  other  day,  I  found  two  mutes 
standing  with  their  horrid  black  bags  at  Maynard's,  the  butcher's, 
door.     There  was  a  hearse  too,  with  plenty  of  plumes,  and  many 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  299 

black  coaches,  and  all  the  people  of  the  street  seemed  turned  out 
to  look.  'Is  old  Mrs.  Maynard  dead?'  I  asked  the  omnibus  con- 
ductor, surprised ;  for  I  had  seen  the  long  son  at  our  door  in  the 
morning  as  usual,  and  had  heard  of  no  death  in  the  family.  '  Oh, 
no,  not  the  old  lady,  it  is  the  son  George!  '  the  handsome  young 
man  that  has  latterly  come  for  orders  with  the  cart.  On  the  Thurs- 
day he  had  come  and  I  shook  my  head  at  the  window,  and  he 
touched  his  hat  and  drove  on.  That  same  day  he  had  '  three  fits,' 
which  left  him  delirious;  on  Sunday  he  died,  and  there,  on  the  day 
week  that  I  had  seen  him,  was  he  getting  himself  buried !  His 
brother  tells  me  that  although  he  'would  work  to  the  last,'  it  was 
'a  happy  release ;' that  for  j-ears  he  had  been  suffering  horrors 
from  disease  of  the  liver,  but  he  wouldn't  give  in,  for  he  was  as 
fine  a  lad  as  ever  breathed,  the  tall  butcher  said,  with  a  quivering 
mouth.  Just  think!  going  round  asking  all  the  people  what  they 
wanted  for  dinner,  and  return  home  to  die  I 

I  think  the  new  servant  will  do;  she  looks  douce,  intelligent, 
well-conditioned.  Very  like  Lancaster  Jane  (if  you  remember 
her),  with  a  dash  of  Ann  and  of  Phosbie  Baillie!  She  is  not  what 
is  called  'a  thorough  servant,'  but  that  will  be  no  objection  to  sig- 
nify, as  I  am  not  'a  thorough  lady,'  which  Grace  Macdonald  de- 
fined to  be  one  '  who  had  not  entered  her  own  kitchen  for  seven 
years.'  I  must  say,  however,  that,  so  far  as  I  have  seen  her  yet,  I 
have  not  discovered  wherein  she  falls  short  of  the  servants  who  give 
themselves  out  for  'thorough.'  Yet  she  is  only  twenty,  and  for 
the  last  two  and  a  half  years  has  been  acting  as  nursemaid!  How- 
ever she  may  turn  out,  I  am  certainly  under  great  obligations  to 
Geraldine's  old  Miss  Darby,  for  having  hunted  up  this  girl  and 
taken  much  trouble  to  '  suit  me,' in  a  situation  that  was  really  very 
desolate,  my  state  of  weakness  at  the  time  considered.  But  all  is 
going  on  decently  now  again. 

And  so,  good  night,  for  it  is  time  I  were  in  bed.  Love  to  your 
mother  and  the  rest. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  Carltle. 

Pray  do  not  go  ahead  in  milk  diet  too  impetuously  '  In  every 
inordmate  cup  the  ingredient  is  a  devil ' — even  in  an  inordinate  cup 
of  innocent  milk. 


300  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER   132. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Wednesday,  Sept.  18, 1850. 

'  '  If  the  buttons  be  here  on  Wednesday  they  will  be  in  abundant 
time.'  I  should  think  they  would!  and  'don't  you  wish  you  may 
get  them? '  Why,  how  on  earth  could  I  have  them  there  on  Wednes- 
day, unless,  indeed,  I  had  immediately  last  night,  after  reading 
your  letter  and  swallowing  my  tea,  dashed  off  in  an  omnibus  to 
Regent  Street,  by  dark;  and  then,  having  bought  perhaps  yellow 
buttons  for  drab  ones,  posted  them  before  my  return  to  Chelsea? 
One  is  capable  of  such  acts  of  devotion  to  save  '  a  man's  life,  or 
even  his  watch! '    But  merely  to  expedite  his  buttons?  hardly! 

I  shall  go  now,  however,  when  I  have  written  a  bit;  for  I  am 
able  to  go  out  again  without  risk.  The  town  seemed  to  come  mo- 
mentarily alive  yesterday,  like  a  blue-bottle  on  an  unseasonable 
■winter's  day.  I  was  just  finishing  the  nailing  down  of  the  library 
carpet — '  Still  that  to  do,'  you  think,  '  after  nearly  two  months  of 
earthquaking? '  Yes;  and  it  could  not  have  been  got  done  sooner, 
under  the  circumstances,  by  the  exemplary  Martha  Tidy  herself  1 

Ah,  that  is  the  mystery 
Of  this  wonderful  history. 
And  you  wish  that  you  could  tell, 

I  have  a  fine  misadventure  about  the  library  also  to  reveal  to  you; 
but  that  and  my  other  various  misadventures  shall  form  a  Chelsean 
night's  entertainment,  when  sufiiciently  remote  to  be  laughed  over. 
So  I  decided  some  weeks  ago,  when  I  saw  the  part  your  ungrateful 
'Destinies'  had  taken  against  mc,  that  it  would  be  better  to  keep 
my  squalid  diflBculties  to  myself  till  I  could  '  take  a  bird's-eye  view '  * 
of  them  in  the  past  tense,  and  work  them  up,  at  my  ease,  into  a 
conversational  '  work  of  art.'  But  I  was  going  to  §ay  that  just  as  I 
was  finishing  the  above-mentioned  job,  I  was  surprised  by  the  rare 
sound  of  a  knock  and  ring,  and  a  brisk  little  voice  asking,  'Is 
your  mistress  within?'  Emma  came  up  with  much  awe  in  her 
face,  and  said,  'It  is  the  Bishop  of  something,  I  don't  know  what.' 
Actually*    *    *    *  again!    He  had  been  brought  up,  not  at  his 

'  So  Carlyle  had  written  from  Scotsbrig.— J.  A.  F. 
*  Phrase  of  old  McDiarmid's,  of  Dumfries. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  301 

own  expense,  to  bear  witness  that  he  had  married  a  couple  who 
want  to  be  divorced,  and  deny  having  been  properly  married  ever. 
'It  was  a  love  runaway  sort  of  match.'  After  an  hour  and  half, 
he  went  his  way  and  I  returned  to  my  carpet.  In  five  minutes  I  was 
called  down  again  to  'two  gentlemen  and  a  lady.'  'Don't  you 
know  their  names?'  'No;  but  there  is  a  coachman  and  afoot- 
man,  and  the  lady  is  very  stout.'  Bunsen,  Madame  Bunsen, 
and  a  young  German  doctor.  The  lady  was  formal  as  usual;  but 
Bunsen  was  really  charming.  He  praised  much  the  pamphlets; 
'  already  saw  them  doing  much  good ; '  especially  he  delighted  in 
'Jesuitism'!  'Oh!  his  definition  of  Jesuitism  is  capital,  so  good, 
so  good! '  By  the  by,  nobody  that  I  have  ever  asked  about  it  under- 
stands Bunsen  recalled. 

After  these  came  my  cousin  John  to  early  tea,  his  second  visit 
since  he  was  settled  at  Kew,  three  weeks  ago.  And,  lateish,  Craik, 
who  improves  in  sententiousuess  and  that  universal  forgiveness 
which  springs  from  universal  understanding.  A  luck  I  didn't  wait 
for  his  maid.  He  now  '  thinks  of  keeping  her  three  months; '  and 
she  thinks  of  '  a  little  shop  after.' 

If  I  don't  be  off  I  shall  be  belated.  Nero  bids  me  give  his  kind 
regards,  and  wishes  you  had  seen  him  this  morning  when  he  came 
to  breakfast,  with  hair  on  his  face  all  dyed  bright  crimson!  I 
thought  he  must  have  done  it  himself  to  improve  his  looks;  till  I 
recollected  that  he  was  sent  down  last  night  to  have  his  face  washed; 
he  had  been  rubbing  it  dry,  I  suppose,  after  his  fashion,  on  a  piece 
of  red  cloth  that  was  lying  under  the  table;  but  the  effect  was 
startling.     Love  to  your  mother  and  all. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  C. 

LETTER  133. 

Carlyle  was  about  to  return  from  Scotland.  Mrs.  Carlyle  was 
going  on  a  visit  to  the  Grange. — J.  A.  F. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotshrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Monday,  Sept.  23, 1850. 

Alas,  dear!  I  am  very  sorry  for  you.     You,  as  well  as  I,  are  'too 

vivid ; '  to  you,  as  well  as  to  me,  has  a  skin  been  given  much  too 

thin  for  the  rough  purposes  of  liunian  life.     They  could  not  make 

ball-gloves  of  our  skins,  dear,  never  to  dream  of  breeches.'     But  it 

>  French  Revolution,  Tannery  of  Meudon. 


303  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

is  to  be  hoped  you  will  feel  some  benefit  from  all  this  knocking 
about  when  it  is  over  and  you  are  settled  at  home,  such  as  it  is.  It 
does  not  help  to  raise  my  spirits,  for  my  own  adventure,  that  you 
are  likely  to  arrive  here  in  my  absence.  You  may  be  better  with- 
out me,  so  far  as  my  company  goes.  I  make  myself  no  illusion  on 
I  hat  head;  my  company,  I  know,  is  generally  worse  than  none;  and 
you  cannot  suffer  more  from  the  fact  than  I  do  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  it.  God  knows  how  gladly  I  would  be  sweet-tempered  and 
cheerful-hearted,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  for  your  single  sake,  if 
my  temper  were  not  soured  and  my  heart  saddened,  beyond  my 
own  power  to  mend  them. 

But  you  would  certainly  be  the  better  for  me  to  stand  between 
you  and  this  new  servant,  who  has  as  little  idea  of  going  on  with- 
out '  interference '  as  Elizabeth  of  going  on  with  it.  She  is  very 
willing,  however,  and  'not  without  sense;'  only  you  must  give 
your  orders  in  simple  unfigurative  speech,  and  one  after  another. 
If  you  were  to  tell  her,  in  the  same  breath,  three  things  to  be  done, 
she  would  fly  at  them  all  at  one  time,  and  spin  round  on  her  heel 
simply.  For  living,  you  must  confine  yourself  to  broiled  chops,  or 
fowl  quartered,  one  quarter  boiled  in  soup,  another  broiled.  Mut- 
ton broth  is  beyond  her;  and  in  roasting,  she  is  far  from  strong. 
"We  are  getting  very  plausible  potatoes,  and  she  boils  these  pretty 
well. 

I  did  not  find  Miss  Wynne  on  Saturday.  She  had  been  '  poorly ' 
atDropmore,  and  was  not  expected  till  Thursday;  so  I  shall  not 
see  her  at  all. 

I  was  too  late  for  Miss  Farrar  after;  so  I  went  to  her  yesterday. 
Miss  Farrar  could  not  go  on  Wednesday  after  all;  '  her  brother  was 
coming  to  town  on  Thursday,  and  she  would  not  for  the  whole 
world  go  away  without  having  seen  him.'    The  old  mother  had  just 

told  John  and  me,  before  Miss came  into  the  room,  that  she 

was  '  detained  on  account  of  the  means  not  being  procurable  before 
Friday! '  I  intended  to  go  on  Wednesday  all  the  same  before  get- 
ting the  inclosed  this  morning  from  Lady  A.' 

I  have  'the  means,'  thank  God,  though  Mrs.  Farrar  and  her 
daughter  did  ask  Mrs.  White  if  we  didn't  live  dreadfully  poorly!  I 
have  had  no  money  from  Chapman,  however.  He  has  not  come 
nor  sent,  and  my  house-money  is  utterly  done,  and  no  mistake. 
But  then  I  flatter  myself  I  have  a  good  many  things  to  show  for  it. 


>  Insisting  on  the  old  day.    Note  still  extant.    '  Lady  William  Kussell  and 
her  two  sons,'  &c.  &c. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  303 

All  my  little  accounts  are  settled,  except  one,  which  I  leave  for  you, 
as  beyond  the  limits  of  my  savings;  and  if  you  do  not  approve  the 
outlay,  I  have  a  heart  above  slavery,  and  will  pay  it  myself  out  of 
my  next  twelvemonth's  income.  But  though  the  house-money  is 
done,  my  own  allowance  is  not.  I  have  still  five  pounds — might 
have  had  more  if  I  had  not  chosen  to  lay  out  what  you  repaid  me 
for  my  ball  dress  on  my  own  bedroom ;  a  much  more  satisfactory 
investment,  to  my  ideas !  If  I  find  myself  in  danger  of  bankraiping 
I  will  tell  you.  So  do  not  plague  yourself  by  sending  any  money 
for  the  present.  I  have  been  interrupted  in  this  note  by  Mac- 
Diarmid  and  Colonel  Burns.  Oh,  such  a  withered  up  skite  poor 
Mac  is  become. 
I  am  going  to  be  very  vexed  at  having  to  leave  Nero. 

Ever  your 

J.  C. 

LETTER  184. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

The  Grange:  Thursday,  Oct.  3, 1850. 

I  have  put  a  lucifer  to  my  bedroom  fire,  dear,  and  sat  down  to 
write,  but  I  feel  more  disposed  to  lay  my  head  on  the  table  and  cry. 
By  this  time  I  suppose  you  are  at  home;  returned  after  a  two 
months'  absence,  arrived  oflE  a  long  journey — and  I  not  there!  no- 
body there  but  a  stranger  servant,  who  will  need  to  be  told  every- 
thing you  want  of  her,  and  a  mercy  if  she  can  do  it  even  then. 
The  comfort  which  offers  itself  under  this  last  innovation  in  our 
life  together  (for  it  is  the  first  time  in  all  the  twenty  years  I  have 
lived  beside  you  that  you  ever  arrived  at  home  and  I  away)  is  the 
greatest  part  of  the  grievance  for  my  irrational  mind.  I  am  not  con- 
soled, but  '  aggravated '  by  reflecting  that  in  point  of  fact  you  will 
prefer  finding  '  perfect  solitude  '  in  your  own  house,  and  that  if  I 
were  to  do  as  nature  prompts  me  to  do,  and  start  off  home  by  the 
next  train,  I  should  take  more  from  your  comfort  on  one  side  than 
I  should  add  to  it  on  another,  besides  being  considered  here  as  be- 
yond measure  ridiculous.  Cerlainly,  this  is  the  best  school  that  the 
lilie  of  me  was  ever  put  to  for  getting  cured  of  every  particle  of 
'the  finer  sensibilities.' 

Mrs. was  in  London  yesterday  and  saw  my  maid  on  business 

of  her  own,  and  brought  Ijack  word  from  her  that  you  were  coming 
last  night;  and  the  shouts  of  laughter,  and  cutting  '  wits,'  with  which 


304  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

my  startled  look  and  exclamation,  'Oh,  gracious!'  were  visited 
when  the  news  was  told  me  as  we  sat  down  to  dinner,  were  enough 
to  terrify  one  from  '  showing  feeling '  for  twelve  months  to  come. 

Mrs.  shan't  snub  me,  however.     I  am  quite  as  clever  as  she 

any  day  of  the  year,  and  am  bound  to  her  by  no  ties,  human  or 
divine.  And  so  I  showed  her  so  plainly  that  I  was  displeased  with 
her  impertinent  jesting  at  my  expense  that  she  made  me  an  apology 
in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

And  now  what  is  to  be  done  next?  You  say,  stay  where  I  am, 
as  if  you  were  not — easily  said,  but  not  at  all  easily  done.  It  is 
quite  out  of  the  question  my  remaining  here  till  the  20th,  the  day 
Lady  A.  has  appointed  for  the  terra  of  my  visit,  doing  nothing,  and 
thinking  of  you  at  home  with  that  inexperienced  girl.  Who  cares 
one  doit  for  me  here,  that  I  should  stay  here,  when  you,  who  still 
care  a  little  for  me,  more  any  how  than  any  other  person  living 
docs,  are  again  at  home?  And  what  good  can  'ornament  and 
grandeur,' and  'wits,'  and  'the  honour  of  the  thing,'  do  to  my 
health  when  '  my  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here?  ' 
Oh  dear!  certainly  not;  I  shall  keep  to  my  original  programme,  and 
come  home  after  a  fortnight — that  will  be  next  Wednesday,  when 
you  will  have  had  plenty  of  time  to  subside  from  your  jumbling, 
and  will  have  exhausted  all  Emma's  powers  of  cooking:  unless  you 
are  savage  enough  to  wish  not  to  see  my  face  till  the  20th,  and 
honest  enough  to  tell  me  so ;  or,  unless  you  prefer  to  accept  the  in- 
vitation, which  Lady  A.  is  again  writing  to  you,  to  come  here  after 
you  are  rested.     You  would  be  bored  here  just  at  present  with 

's  solemn  fatherhood,  and  the  much  talk  and  bother  about  the 

children.    But  the s  depart,  sucking-baby  and  all,  on  the  eighth, 

and  after  that  I  hear  of  no  one  coming  but  Thackeray  and  Brook- 
field  and  Lady  Montague.  George  Bunsen  and  Colonel  Rawlinson 
are  coming,  but  only  for  a  day  or  two.  Do,  dear,  'consult  your 
authentic  wish,'  whether  you  will  join  me  here,  or  have  me  back 
there;  whichever  way  of  it  you  like  best,  I  shall  like  best,  upon  my 
honour.  The  only  very  good  reason  for  my  staying  till  the  twen- 
tieth, viz.  to  be  'another  woman  in  the  house,'  as  Lady  A.  said, 
while  men  visitors  are  here  in  Lord  A.'s  absence,  is  done  away  with 
by  the  fact  of  Lady  Montague's  coming,  and  Miss  Farrar's  being  to 
stay  till  the  nineteenth.  In  going  next  Wednesday,  I  shall  not  put 
Lady  A.  about  then  the  least  in  the  world.  At  the  same  time  you 
might  be  better  here,  perhaps  till  the  twentieth,  than  in  London,  as 
Lady  A.  says  you  should  have  this  bedroom,  which  is  quiet  enough 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  305 

—at  least,  will  be — when  the  children  have  ceased  to  'run 

horses  '  overhead;  and  shall  have  your  dinner  by  yourself  at  what 
hour  you  please. 

And  so  I  will  now  go  and  try  to  walk  off  the  headache  I  have  got 
J3y — by  what  do  you  think? — crying  actually.  Prosaic  as  this  letter 
looks,  I  have  not,  somehow,  been  able  to  '  dry  myself  up '  while 
writing  it.  I  suppose  it  is  the  '  compress  '  put  on  me  in  the  draw- 
ing-room that  makes  me  bubble  up  at  no  allowance  when  I  am 
alone.  Ever  your 

J.  C. 

October  5,  1850. 

Thackeray  is  here— arrived  yesterday,  greatly  to  the  discomfort 

of evidently,  who  had  '  had  the  gang  all  to  himself '  so  long. 

First  he  (Thackeray)  wrote  he  was  coming.     Then  Lady  A.  put 

him  off  on   account  of  some  Punch-offence  to  the  s;  then 

Thackeray  wrote  an  apology  to !  then  Lady  A.  wrote  he  was 

to  come  after  all,  and  went  to  Winchester  to  meet  him,  and 

sulked  all  yesterday  evening,  and  to-day  is  solemn  to  death.  In 
fact  he  has  been  making  a  sort  of  superior  agapemone  here,  in  which 
he  was  the  Mr.  Price,  the  Spirit  of  Love ;  and  no  wonder  he  dislikes 
the  turn  that  has  been  given  to  things  by  the  arrival  of  the  Spirit 
of  Punch.  Col.  Piawlinson  comes  to-morrow,  Kinglake  with  Brook- 
field  on  the  15th,  and  a  great  clerical  dinner  to  the  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester comes  off  on  Tuesday,  so  that  you  will  happily  escape. 
Poor  dear  little  Nero!  I  am  so  glad  he  knew  you,  and  showed 
himself  'capable  of  a  profound  sentiment  of  affection,'  in  spite  of 
your  disbelief. 

LETTER  135. 

To  Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Dec.  31, 1850. 
Don't  the  years  get  to  gallop  so  fast,  dear  Mrs.  Russell,  that  it 
seems  no  longer  worth  while  to  take  note  of  them?  Since  last  New 
Year  to  this  one,  I  seem  to  have  hardly  had  time  enough  for  one 
good  long  sleep !  To  those,  however,  whom  the  winter  finds  with 
no  money  in  their  pockets  to  buy  fire  and  food,  the  new  winter  may 
not  look  so  short;  I  wonder  if  to  old  Mary,  for  example,  time  seems 
to  fly  in  this  way,  with  ever-increasing  velocity?  Do  you  think 
she  has  any  satisfaction  in  her  life?  If  so,  what  shame  to  some  of 
usi    Poor  old  soul!  as  long  as  the  life  is  in  her,  I  fancy  she  will 


306  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

like  a  bit  of  finery,  especially  if  sent  from  London;  and  so  the  scar- 
let scarf  (!)I  send  her,  however  preposterous  a  present  you  may 
think  it,  won't  have  been  so  ill-judged.  I  wish  I  were  nearer  her; 
I  could  give  her  plenty  of  old  warm  things,  that  poor  people  here 
hardly  tliank  me  for,  and  pawn  generally  for  drink;  but  the  car- 
riage of  such  things  costs  more  than  they  are  all  worth,  and  such 
trifles  as  can  be  easily  sent  by  post  are  not  adapted  to  the  wants  of 
a  poor  old  woman.  Yet  I  am  sure  she  likes  something  coming 
from  myself  better  than  she  would  like  the  money  to  buy  a  New 
Year's  trifle  to  herself.  So  tell  her,  with  my  kind  regards,  to  twist 
this  scarf  several  times  round  her  old  throat,  and  to  be  sure  and  not 
strangle  herself  with  it.  There  is  a  ribbon  for  Margaret — the  ugliest, 
I  must  say,  that  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on ;  but  I  sent  my  maid  to  buy 
it,  having  got  a  little  cold  to-day,  and  this  was  her  notion  of  the 
becoming!  I  must  put  in  a  cap  border  with  it  to  carry  it  off.  The 
sovereign  please  to  distribute  for  me  according  to  your  discretion. 

Things  are  going  on  well  enough  with  us  for  the  present.  There 
has  been  no  winter  hitherto  to  give  me  a  chance  at  getting  myself 
laid  up  (for  my  cold  to-day  is  nothing  to  speak  of),  and  my  liead- 
aches  have  neither  been  so  frequent  nor  so  severe  latterly.  But  I  met 
with  a  horrid  accident  some  weeks  ago — banged  my  right  breast 
against  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  for  three  weeks  the  pain  continued, 
and  so,  not  being  able  to  get  the  thing  forgotten,  I  was  frightened 
out  of  my  wits  for  the  possible  consequences,  especially  as  my 
brother-in-law  wrote  from  Scotsbrig  that  I  was  not  to  go  to  any 
doctor  with  it,  '  London  doctors  being  so  unsafe  for  making  a  case 
out  of  everything,  and  any  meddling  with  such  a  thing  as  this  be- 
ing, in  his  opinion,  positively  injurious.'  There!  what  does  Dr. 
Russell  say  to  such  views  of  the  medical  profession?  The  pain  is 
quite  gone  now,  however,  and  I  try  to  tliink  no  more  about  it;  but 
it  may  be  excused  to  rae,  all  things  recollected,  that  I  have  suffered 
a  good  deal  of  aJDprehension  from  this  accident.  I  have  also  been 
bothered  to  death  with  servants  this  autumn — have  had  three  in 
quick  succession.  The  first  new  one  roasted  fowls  with  the  crop 
and  bowels  in  them!  and  that  mode  of  cookery  was  not  to  our  taste. 
The  second,  a  really  clever  servant  and  good  girl,  came  to  me  with 
a  serious  disease  upon  her,  and  had  to  be  soon  sent  to  the  hospital, 
where  she  is  still,  after  two  months;  the  third  and  last,  thank 
Heaven,  suits  capitally — but  I  had  best  not  praise  her  too  much,  it 
is  '  a  tempting  of  Providence '  to  '  cry  before  one  is  out  of  the 
wood.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  307 

Kindest  regards  to  your  father  and  husband.  Tell  me  about 
your  health,  and  '  the  smallest  news  will  be  gratefully  received.' 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

Jake  Carlyle. 

LETTER  136. 
To  John  Welsh,  Esq.,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea :  Jan.  2, 1851. 

'John!  Sole  uncle  of  my  house  and  heart!'  I  have  just  one 
word  to  say  to  you  to-day,  viz.  that  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  ever  give  you 
anything  another  time,  if  you  are  to  go  on  the  William  Gibson  tack 
and  instantly  set  about  making  'a  suitable  return.'  I  thank  you 
heartily  for  your  New  Year's  gift:  but,  only,  don't  do  tlie  like  of 
that  again,  uncle  of  me!  I  hope  the  summer  will  plump  out  my 
poor  scraggy  arms  into  a  state  adapted  for  such  transparent  ele- 
gancies. And  now  I  must  simply  promise  you  a  long  letter;  for 
to-day  is  most  unfavourable  for  writing  one.^ 

There  arrived  on  us  yesterday  a  young  heroine  of  romance,  with 
a  quantity  of  trunks  and  a  lady's-maid,  who  is  for  the  moment 
keeping  this  poor  house  and  my  poor  self  in  a  state  of  utter 
disgust.  I  had  invited  her  to  dine  one  day,  and,  if  it  suited  her 
better,  to  stay  over  the  night.  And  she  has  so  arranged  her  affairs 
that,  if  she  leaves  here  to-day,  it  must  be  to  live  till  next  week  in 
an  hotel  (at  nineteen).     What  can  one  do,  then,  but  let  her  remain 

—with  protest  against  the  lady's-maid.     She  is  Mrs. 's  adopted 

daughter,  whom  you  may  have  heard  of,  and  has  just  been  playing 

the  Sultana  in  India  for  a  year  and Oh  dear,  here  is  her  lover 

come  to  see  her,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  a  prison  inspector  is 
coming  to  take  Mr.  C.  and  me  through  Pentonville  Prison.  I  am 
bothered  to  death,  my  blessed  uncle;  so  adieu.  I  will  write  again 
next  week.  Your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  137. 

To  John  Welsh,  Esq.,  Liverpool 

Chelsea:  Jan.  7, 1851. 
Dear,  estimable  uncle  of  mc,— Have  you  been  reading  Thacke- 
ray's '  Pendennis '  ?  If  so,  you  have  made  acquaintance  witii  Blanche 
Amory ;  and  when  I  tell  you  that  my  young  lady  of  last  week  is  the 


308  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

original  of  that  portrait,  you  will  give  me  joy  that  she,  lady's-maid, 

and  infinite  baggage,  are  all  gone!    Not  that  the  poor  little is 

quite  such  a  little  devil  as  Thackeray,  who  has  deetested  her  from 
a  child,  has  here  represented;  but  the  looks,  the  manners,  the  wiles, 
the  larmes,  '  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,'  are  a  perfect  likeness.  The 
blame,  however,  is  chiefly  on  those  who  placed  her  in  a  position  so 
false  that  it  required  extraordinary  virtue  not  to  become  false  along 
with  it.      She  was  the  only  legitimate  child  of  a  beautiful  young 

'  improper  female,'  who  was  for  a  number  of  years 's  mistress 

(she  had  had  a  husband,  a  swindler).  His  mother  took  the  freak  of 
patronising  this  mistress,  saw  the  child,  and  behold  it  was  very 

pretty  and  clever.     Poor  Mrs.  had  tired  of  parties,  of  politics, 

of  most  things  in  heaven  and  earth;  '  a  sudden  thought  struck  her,' 
she  would  adopt  this  child ;  give  herself  the  excitement  of  making 
a  scandal  and  braving  public  opinion,  and  of  educating  a  flesh  and 
blood  girl  into  the  heroine  of  the  three-volume  novel,  which  she  had 
for  years  been  trying  to  write,  but  wanted  perseverance  to  elaborate. 
The  child  was  made  the  idol  of  the  whole  house;  her  showy  edu- 
cation was  fitting  her  more  for  her  own  mother's  profession  than 
for  any  honest  one;  and  when  she  was  seventeen,  and  the  novel  was 
just  rising  into  the  interest  of  love  affairs,  a  rich  young  man  having 

been  refused,  or  rather  jilted,  by  her,  Mrs.  died,  her  husband 

and  son  being  already  dead;  and  poor was  left  without  any 

earthly  stay,  and  with  only  350/.  a  year  to  support  her  in  the  ex- 
travagantly luxurious  habits  she  had  been  brought  up  in. 

She  has  a  splendid  voice,  and  wished  to  get  trained  for  the 

opera.     Mrs. 's  fine  lady  friends   screamed  at  the  idea,  but 

offered  her  nothing  instead,  not  even  their  countenance.  Her  two 
male  guardians,  to  wash  their  hands  of  her,  resolved  to  send  her  to 
India,  and  to  India  she  had  to  go,  vowing  that  if  their  object  was 
to  marry  her  off,  she  would  disappoint  them,  and  returned  '  to  pros- 
ecute the  artist  life.'  She  produced  the  most  extraordinary /m?w« 
at  Calcutta;  had  offers  every  week;  refused  them  point-blank;  terri- 
fied Sir  by  her  extravagance ;  tormented  Lady by  her 

caprices;  '  fell  into  consumption '  for  the  nonce;  was  ordered  by  the 
doctors  back  to  England!  and,  to  the  dismay  of  her  two  cowardly 
guardians,  arrived  here  six  months  ago  with  her  health  perfectly  re- 
stored !  But  her  Indian  reputation  had  preceded  her,  and  the  fine 
ladies  who  turned  their  backs  on  her  in  her  extreme  need  now  in- 
vite a  girl  who  has  refused  Sudar  Judges  by  the  dozen.  She  has 
been  going  about  from  one  house  to  another,  while  no  home  could 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  309 

be  found  for  her.  The  guardians  had  a  brilliant  idea — '  would  we 
take  her? '  '  Not  for  her  weight  in  gold,'  I  said;  but  I  asked  her  to 
spend  a  day  with  me,  that  I  might  see  what  she  was  grown  to,  and 
whether  I  could  do  anything  in  placing  her  with  some  proper  per- 
son. The  result  of  this  invitation  was  that  alarming  arrival,  bag 
and  baggage,  on  New  Year's  Day ! 

She  has  saved  us  all  further  speculation  about  her,  however,  by 

engagmg  herself  to  someone  (from shire)  who  came  home  in  the 

ship  with  her,  and  seems  a  most  devoted  lover.  She  told  me  she 
'  had  been  hesitating  some  time  betwixt  accepting  him,  or  going  on 
the  stage,  or  drowning  herself.'  I  told  her  her  decision  was  good, 
as  marrying  did  not  preclude  either  '  going  on  the  stage '  at  a  sub- 
sequent period,  or  '  drowning  herself; '  whereas  had  she  decided  on 
the  drowning,  there  could  have  been  no  more  of  it. 

1  have  my  own  notion  that  she  will  throw  him  over  yet;  mean- 
while it  was  a  blessed  calm  after  the  fly  rolled  her  away  from  here 
on  Saturday.  'Oh,  my  dear!'  Mr.  Carlyle  said,  'we  cannot  be 
sufficiently  thankful ! '  Indeed  you  can  have  no  notion  how  the 
whole  routine  of  this  quiet  house  was  tumbled  heels  over  head.  It 
had  been  for  these  three  days  and  three  nights  not  Jonah  in  the 
whale's  belly,  but  the  whale  in  Jonah's  belly;  that  little  creature 
seemed  to  have  absorbed  this  whole  establishment  into  herself. 

There  is  a  long  story  for  you,  which  perhaps  you  can't  take  any 
interest  in;  I  am  sure,  however,  you  would  be  amused  with  an  ac- 
count of  our  visit,  the  other  day,  to  Peutonville  Prison,  if  I  had  left 
myself  time  and  breath  to  tell  it.  '  Oh,  my! '  (as  old  Helen  used  to 
say)  '  how  expensive ! '  prisoners  costing  501.  a  year  each !  You  may 
fancy  their  accommodations  are  somewhat  remarkable.  In  each 
cell  I  saw  a  pretty  little  corner  cupboard,  on  one  shelf  of  which  was 
the  dressing  apparatus — a  comb  and  brush,  and  small  tooth  comb! 
— laid  on  a  neatly  folded-up  towel;  a  shaving  jug  with  metal  top  on 
one  side,  an  artistic  soap-box  on  the  other!  In  one  cell  I  remarked 
a  blue  tassel,  with  a  bit  of  steel  chain  attached  to  it,  hung  upon  a 
brass  nail.  '  What  is  the  use  of  that  tassel? '  I  asked  the  inspector. 
'That  tassel,  ma'am?  why  that  tassel  is — a  fancy  of  the  prisoner's 
own;  we  allow  them  to  have  their  little  fancies!'  They  all  wear 
masks  when  in  each  other's  presence,  that,  should  they  afterwards 
meet  in  society,  their  feelings  may  be  spared.  They  have  such 
charming  bath-rooms!  Each  man  has  a  good-sized  court  all  to  him- 
self to  run  about  in  for  an  hour  at  a  time;  and  while  we  were  there 
they  all  '  went  to  school,'  with  books  and  slates  under  their  arm, 


310  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

masked!  If  any  man  wishes  to  have  the  comforts  of  life,  and  be 
taught,  and,  'have  his  fancies,'  let  him  rush  out  and  commit  a 
felony! 

We  went  to  hear  their  religious  teaching  in  the  chapel.  An  un- 
der-chaplain  stood  on  the  altar  with  a  bible  in  one  hand  and  a  red 
book  (like  a  butcher's)  in  the  other;  he  read  a  passage  from  the 
Bible,  then  looked  in  the  red  book  for  the  numbers  (they  have  no 
names)  whose  turn  it  was  to  be  examined.  For  instance,  he  read 
about  the  young  man  who  came  to  Jesus,  and  asked  what  he  should 
do  to  be  saved?  Then  after  consulting  the  red  book  he  called  out, 
'Numbers  thirty-two  and  seventy-eight:  What  shall  I  do  to  enter 
into  eternal  life?  '  Thirty-two  and  seventy-eight  answered,  the  one 
iu  a  growl,  the  other  in  a  squeal,  '  Sell  all  that  thou  hast  and  give 
to  the  poor.' 

Now,  my  blessed  uncle,  did  you  ever  hear  such  nonsense?  If  a 
grain  of  logic  was  in  the  heads  of  thirty-two  and  seventy -eight, 
mustn't  they  have  thought,  '  Well,  what  the  devil  are  we  taken  up, 
and  imprisoned,  and  called  criminals  for,  but  just  because  we  take 
this  injunction  seriously,  and  help  you  to  carry  it  out,  by  relieving 
you  of  your  watches  and  other  sundries.'  I  should  tell  you  too 
that  each  prisoner  has  a  bell  in  his  cell !  One  man  said  to  some  visi- 
tor, 'and  if  I  ring  my  bell  a  fool  answers  it.' 

Uncle  dear,  good-niglit.  If  you  and  I  were  the  Government, 
wouldn't  we  sweep  such  confounded  humbug  out  of  creation! 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

Love  to  the  children. 

LETTER  138. 

End  of  July  or  beginning  of  August,  1851,  we  went  to  Malvern 
to  the  water  cure,  which  was  then,  and  perliaps  is  still,  a  prevalent 
delusion  among  chronic  invalids.  Dr.  Gully,  a  distinguished  pro- 
fessor of  the  new  art,  by  far  tlie  most  distinguished  then,  had  press- 
ingly  again  and  again  invited  us.  '  Oh,  come,  lodge  in  my  house; 
only  come  and  I  will  cure  you! '  Me  especially,  I  suppose,  which 
indeed  would  have  suited  well  two  waj'^s  had  he  succeeded  {vide 
Lytton  Bulwer's  flaming  pamphlet,  and  other  noneenses).  My  own 
faith  in  water  cure  was  nearly  zero,  and  has  not  since  risen  higher. 
But  I  reflected  with  myself,  '  You  will  have  to  try  it  some  day  (as 
you  had  to  try  that  rubbing  with  hair  gloves  humbug,  though  "with 
damage).  No  humbug  can  prevail  among  your  acquaintances,  but 
they  will  force  you  to  get  tlie  means  of  saying,  "  Oil,  I  liave  tried 
all  that  and  found  it  naught!"  '  So  lying  open  for  a  summer  jaunt, 
and  judging  humanly  well  of  Gully,  we  decided  to  go;  stayed  with 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  311 

him,  as  per  bargain,  a  month:  most  humanly  and  hospitably  enter- 
tained; drank  a  good  deal  of  excellent  water  there,  and  for  some 
time  after  tried  compressors,  sitting  baths,  packings,  &c.  Admired 
the  fine  air  and  country;  found  by  degrees  water,  taken  as  a  medi- 
cine, to  be  the  most  destructive  drug  I  had  ever  tried— and  thus 
paid  my  tax  to  contemporary  stupor,  and  had  done  with  water  cure. 

I  remember  vividly  enough  our  rolling  off  for  Worcester;  and 
except  (more  indistinctly)  our  parting  somewhere,  and  my  arriving 
at  Scotsbrig,  almost  nothing  more.  My  Jeannie  (as  this  letter  re- 
kindles into  light  in  my  memory  (had  gone  for  Manchester;  I  for 
Scotsbria:,  full  of  gloorn  and  heaviness,  and  totally  out  of  health, 
bodily  and  spiritual.  Prussian  Friedrich,  and  the  Peliou  laid  on 
Ossa  of  Prussian  Dryasdust,  lay  crushing  me  with  the  continual 
question,  '  Dare  I  try  it?  dare  I  not? ' 

The  portmanteau  I  do  recollect.  It  had  been  flung  off  at  Kendal 
junction  by  mistake,  and  next  afternoon  arrived  safe  at  Scotsbrig. 

Mrs.  Gaskell  is  the  novelist,  since  deceased.  Dr.  Smith  (Angus 
Smith),  a  chemist  of  merit  and  man  of  much  naivete  and  simplicity, 
is  he  who,  now  in  Government  pay,  goes  about  investigating  foul 
atmospheres  (mines,  factories,  cities,  slums),  and  says,  'How  foul!' 
— T.  C. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle,  ScotsWig,  Ecdefechan. 

2  Birchfleld  Place,  Higher  Ardwick,  Manchester: 

Friday,  Sept.  5,  1851. 

Well,  really!  you  don't  '  beat  us  all  for  a  deep  thought.'  If  you 
had  lost  my  address,  why  not  send  a  letter  for  me  to  the  care  of  F. 
Jewsbury,  Fire  Insurance  Office,  Manchester?  or  to  the  care  of  Mr. 
Ireland,  or  any  of  the  many  people  in  Manchester  you  are  in  corre- 
spondence with,  if  you  could  not  risk  writing  to  the  care  of  Miss 
Jewsbury,  Manchester,  which  is  address  enough  for  practical  pur- 
poses. Round  by  Chelsea,  at  second-hand,  was  a  very  '  slow '  pro- 
ceeding— '  upon  my  honour ! '  Besides,  the  sight  of  a  letter  addressed 
to  Geraldine,  in  John's  handwriting,  was  calculated  to  give  me  a 
serious  fright.  When  we  came  in  late  last  night  from  Bowden, 
where  we  had  passed  the  day,  and  I  saw  on  the  table  only  that  let- 
ter for  her,  instead  of  the  one  I  made  sure  of  for  myself,  my  heart 
jumped  into  my  mouth,  I  assure  you;  and  I  tore  it  open  without 
asking  her  leave,  and  was  downright  thankful  to  learn  that  'my 
brother  had  merely  found  his  portmanteau  missing.'  I  hope  you 
have  recovered  it  by  this  time;  it  can't  be  that  it  is  permanently  lost? 
If  it  be  irrecoverable,  however,  you  must  just  try  to  think  how 
much  worse  it  would  have  been  to  have  lost  a  manuscript  or  me? 
that  (so  far  as  I  am  aware)  it  is  but,  after  all,  a  question  of  shirts 
and  woollen  clothes,  which  may  all  be  replaced  with  a  small  expen 


812  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

diture  of  money  and  patience.  I  shall  be  very  happy,  however,  to 
hear  that  the  old  portmanteau  is  safe  at  Scotsbrig,  for  '  you  are  the 
last  man  in  England '  that  should,  in  the  course  of  a  kind  Provi- 
dence, be  visited  with  such  untoward  accidents.  As  I  have  by  this 
time  quite  forgiven  you  for  coming  to  go  through  the  form  of  kiss- 
ing at  parting  with  a  lighted  cigar  in  your  mouth  (!),  I  am  sadly 
vexed  at  the  idea  of  all  this  new  botheration  for  you  at  the  end  of 
your  journey ;  and  vexed,  too,  for  your  mother  and  the  rest,  whose 
pleasure  in  your  arrival  would  be  spoiled  for  them  by  your  arriving 
in  a  state  of  worry. 

For  myself,  it  seems  almost  Grahamish,  under  the  circumstances, 
to  tell  you  that  I  performed  my  journey  in  the  most  prosperous 
manner — even  to  the  successful  smuggling  of  Nero.  At  the  Man- 
chester station  a  porter  held  out  his  hands  for  the  basket  in  which 
I  had  him,  that  I  might  descend  more  conveniently;  but  I  said  with 
wonderful  calm,  '  Thank  you — I  have  something  here  that  I  require 
to  be  careful  of,  I  will  keep  it  myself,'  and  the  man  bowed,  and 
went  for  my  other  luggage. 

I  found  Geraldine  in  a  much  nicer  house — with  large  high  rooms 
prettily  furnished,  really  as  beautiful  a  house  as  one  could  wish  to 
live  in ;  and  she  is  the  same  kind  little  hostess  as  ever.  With  her 
old  Peggy  and  a  new  young  girl,  she  manages  to  surround  me  with 
'  all  things  most  pleasant  in  life; '  and  I  don't  know  where  I  could 
be  better  off  for  the  moment.  The  first  night  Dilberoglue  and  Dr. 
Smith  came  to  tea;  the  next,  Mrs.  Gaskell  and  her  husband,  and 
Ireland,  and  young  Bernays.  All  yesterday  we  spent  at  Bowden, 
with  a  Miss  Hamilton  (who  has  a  history),  and  to-night  we  are  to 
drink  tea  at  Dilberoglue's,  with  the  Greek  mother  and  the  beautiful 
daughter  Calliope.  For  the  rest,  I  keep  up  as  much  as  possible 
the  forms  of  Malvern  life,  splash  in  cold  water,  and  walk  before 
breakfast;  though  the  Manchester  atmosphere  is  so  thick  that  one 
feels  to  put  it  aside  with  one's  nose — oh,  so  thick,  and  damp,  and 
dirty!  Still  the  walk  does  me  good.  We  dine  at  two,  and  I  reso- 
lutely abstain  from  pills — continuing  to  wear  my  compressor.  I 
went  in  search  of  one  to  send  on  to  you,  but  unsuccessfully  as  yet; 
and  I  have  not  had  leisure  to  make  one,  though  I  am  sure  I  can,  if 
none  be  procurable  at  the  shops. 

I  wrote  to  Miss  Gully  since  I  came  here,  but  there  has  not  been 
time  to  get  an  answer.  The  more  I  think  of  these  people  the  more 
I  admire  their  politeness  and  kindness  to  us.  I  don't  remember 
ever  in  my  life  before  to  have  stayed  a  whole  month  in  anybody's 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  313 

house,  without  ever  once  wishing  to  be  away :  Geraldine  says,  '  My 
dear,  it  is  a  fact  that  spealvs  volumes. ' 

I  am  writing  under  your  image — Geraldine  has  got  your  large 
print,  in  a  pretty  gilt  frame  over  the  chimney-piece  in  my  bedroom, 
facing  Neukomm ;  and  a  little  lower  between  you  is — a  similar  sized 
print  of  Jesus  Christ. 

But  what  will  you  be  caring  for. all  this  that  I  write  if— the  port- 
manteau be  still  in  infinite  space.  Pray  write  the  state  of  the  case ; 
long  letters  are  a  bore  to  write  when  one  is  in  retreat,  and  I  don't 
want  you  to  take  any  bore  on  my  account ;  but  a  short  note  con- 
cerning the  portmanteau  and  your  health  I  cannot  dispense  with. 

Nero  sends  his  dear  little  love,  and  bids  me  say  that  since  you 
went  his  digestion  has  been  much  neglected,  everybody  stuffing  him 
with  dainties,  out  of  kindness,  and  no  exercise  to  speak  of.  He  is 
afraid  of  ending  like  the  king  and  queen  of  the  Sandwich  Islands. 

My  kind  regards  to  all  at  Scotsbrig. 

Ever  yours  faithfully, 

Jane  Cablyle. 

LETTER  139, 

To  Mrs.  Russell,  TJiornldll. 

The  Grange,  Hants:  Monday,  Dec.  1851. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Russell, — I  must  appeal  to  your  well-known  kind- 
ness to  help  me  out  of  a  little  puzzle.  I  left  home  on  a  visit  to 
Lord  Ashburton's  some  four  or  five  weeks  ago,  intending  to  go 
back  on  the  day  after  Christmas;  but  some  people  were  to  be  here 
this  week,  strangers  to  Lady  A.,  and  known  to  me,  and  I  was  re- 
quested to  remain  another  week  to  make  these  young  people's  visit 
more  agreeable  to  them.  Thus  New  Year's  Day  finds  me  unpre- 
pared with  any  little  presents  for  those  whom  I  wish  to  remind  of 
me  at  this  season.  There  is  a  town  (Winchester)  eight  miles  off; 
but  I  cannot  drive  there  to  procure  any  things,  having  caught  a  bad 
cold  in  the  first  week  of  my  visit,  which  confined  me  to  the  house 
llie  first  three  weeks  as  a  measure  of  necessity,  and  I  have  gone  on 
limiting  my  exercise  since  to  a  walk  in  the  conservatory,  and  cor- 
ridors, as  a  measure  of  precaution.  Cold  is  so  easily  retaken,  and 
it  is  so  miserable  to  be  ill  in  other  people's  houses.  What  I  must 
ask  of  you  then  is,  to  be  so  good  as  to  advance  the  usual  sovereign 
for  me,  which  I  will  repay  with  a  Post-Office  order  immediately  on 
my  return,  and  then  you  must  buy  for  Margaret  and  Mary  a  pair 
I.— 14 


314  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

of  warm  stockings  each,  or  some  such  thing — half-a-crown  each  you 
may  lay  out  for  them,  and  don't  say  but  that  I  sent  the  stockings, 
or  whatever  it  may  be,  from  London.  I  am  sure  you  will  do  this 
for  me,  without  grudging  time  and  trouble. 

I  hear  very  often  from  Liverpool  since  that  serious  illness  of  my 
uncle's.  At  present  he  is  pretty  well,  but  his  life  seems  to  hang  by 
a  mere  thread  now.  Every  little  agitation,  such  as  '  listening  for 
the  guns  of  the  American  steamer,  bringing  a  letter  from  Johnnie! ' 
produces  threateniugs  of  the  same  sort  of  attack,  and  another  attack 
will  probably  be  fatal.  I  wish  very  much  to  go  and  see  him  once 
more,  and  must  try  to  manage  it  early  in  the  spring.  Perhaps  I 
may  be  in  Scotland  again  next  year,  and  surely  you  will  come  and 
see  me  somewhere,  if  I  should  not  be  able  to  find  courage  to  go  to 
Thornhill.  A  young  friend  of  mine  married  the  Earl  of  Airlie  last 
autumn,  and  asks  me  to  visit  her  at  Cortachy  Castle;  and  there  is 
an  old  gentleman,  called  '  the  Bear '  in  London  society,  who  has  a 
beautiful  place  twenty  miles  beyond  Fort  Augustus,  who  has  also 
invited  us.  And  there  I  should  really  like  to  go,  to  see  again  the 
places  where  I  went  with  my  mother,  about  thirty  years  ago. 

We  have  had  a  deal  of  company  here  since  I  came,  Macaulay 
amongst  the  rest,  whom  I  had  never  before  seen  at  any  length.  I 
used  to  think  my  husband  the  most  copious  talker,  when  he  liked, 
that  was  anywhere  to  be  fallen  in  with ;  but  Macaulay  beats  him 
hollow!  in  quantity. 

You  need  not  take  the  trouble  of  writing  till  after  I  have  returned 
and  sent  the  mpney;  but  then  you  must  write  me  all  about  your- 
self, and  about  dear  old  Thornhill. 

Kindest  regards  to  your  father  and  husband. 

Ever  yours,  dear  Mrs.  Russell,  affectionately, 

Ja2^k  W.  Carlylb. 

LETTER  140. 

This  was  the  year  (only  first  year,  alas!)  of  repairing  our  house; 
'architect'  (Helps's)  was  'Mr.  Morgan,'  a  very  honest  man,  and 
with  workmen  honest  though  inexpert;  he  himself  had  no  talent 
for  managing  the  chaos  he  created  here,  and  indeed  he  at  length 
fell  sick,  and  left  it  to  end  by  collapse.  My  own  little  heroine  was 
manager,  eye,  inventress,  commandress,  guiding  head  and  soul 
of  everything;  and  made  (witness  this  drawing-room,  and  compare 
it  with  the  original,  i.e.  with  every  other  in  the  street)  a  real  tri- 
umph of  what  witliout  her  would  have  been  a  puddle  of  wasteful 
failure.  She  feared  no  toil  howsoever  unfit  for  her,  had  a  marked 
'  talent  in  architecture,'  too — in  fact,  the  universal  talent  of  apply- 


JAKE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  315 

ing  iutellect,  veracity,  and  courage  to  things  gone  awry  for  want 
of  those  qualities.  My  noble  darling!  few  women  have  had  such 
an  outfit  of  talent,  far  fewer  such  a  loving  nobleness  and  truth  of 
heart  to  urge  it  into  action  and  guide  it  there.  Meanwhile,  to  es- 
cape those  horrors  of  heat  and  dust,  I  fled  (or  indeed  was  dis- 
missed) to  Linlathen,  to  my  excellent  T.  Erskine's,  where  I  mor- 
bidly and  painfully  staj'ed  three  weeks,  genrtest  and  best  of  hospi- 
tality able  to  do  little  for  me.  I  remember  trying  to  bathe  in  the 
summer  mornings — bad  bathing  coast.  Most  of  my  leisure  went  in 
translating  what  is  now  the  Appendix  to  Friedrich,  vol.  vii.  of  2nd 
edition.— T.  C. 

Mrs.  Bussell,  Thornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea :  July  13, 1852. 

Dearest  Mrs.  Hussell, — I  might  be  excused  for  forgetting  my  own 
birthday  this  time,  and  even  my  own  name  and  address,  and  every- 
thing about  me,  except  the  one  terrific  fact  that  I  am  in  a  house 
under  what  is  called  '  thorough  repair. '  Having  never  had  to  do 
with  London  workmen,  you  cannot  form  any  adequate  idea  of  the 
thing.  Workmen  who  spend  three-fourths  of  their  time  in  con- 
sulting how  the  work  should  be  done,  and  in  going  out  and  in  after 
'beer,'  were  not,  at  least  in  my  day,  known  in  Scotland;  and  then 
a  thorough  repair  complicated  by  the  altering  of  chimneys  and  par- 
titions, and  by  heat  at  83^  in  the  shade,  was  a  wild  piece  of  work 
with  any  sort  of  workmen.  The  builder  promised  to  have  all  done 
in  six  weeks,  painting  included;  if  he  get  done  in  six  months  it  is 
as  much  as  I  hope.  Meanwhile  I  run  about  in  the  great  heat,  carry- 
ing my  furniture  in  my  arms  from  one  room  to  another,  and  sleep, 
or  rather  lie  about,  like  a  dog,  just  where  I  see  a  cleared  space.  I 
am  needed  here  to  keep  the  workmen  from  falling  into  continual 
mistakes;  but  why  Mr.  Carlyle,  who  is  anything  rather  than  needed, 
stays  on  I  can't  imagine.  Nor  do  I  know  when  I  shall  get  away, 
nor  where  I  shall  go.  We  were  to  have  gone  to  Germany,  but  that 
is  all  knocked  on  the  head — at  least  for  the  present.  If  you  saw 
me  sitting  in  the  midst  of  falling  bricks  and  clouds  of  lime  dust, 
and  a  noise  as  of  battering-rams,  you  wouldn't  wonder  that  I 
should  make  my  letter  brief. 

The  poor  little  sweetbriar  grew  through  all  the  east  winds,  and 
was  flourishing  beautifully,  when  heavy  rains  came  and  killed  it. 
I  am  vexed,  and  can't  help  feeling  the  sweetbriar  s  unwillingness  to 
grow  with  me  a  bad  omen  somehow.  I  wonder  if  you  will  be  good- 
natured  and  unwearied  enough  to  send  me  another  slip  to  try  when 
the  right  time  comes? 


816  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

And  uow  to  the  business:  will  you  layout  five  shillings  for  old 
Mary  in  some  judicious  way  for  me,  and  w411  you  give  my  little 
packet  to  Margaret,  and  tell  them  I  still  think  of  them  both  kindly? 
I  had  a  great  hope,  very  vague,  but  quite  probable,  that  I  should 
have  gone  to  Scotland  this  summer  and  seen  you  somewhere.  Now 
everything  is  unsettled  with  the  talk  about  Germany,  and  the  fact 
of  this  house-altering. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Welsh  Cahlyle. 


LETTER  141. 
T.  Carlyle,  Linlathen,  Dundee. 

>■    5  Cheyne  Eow:  Friday  night,  July  84,  1852. 

Oh,  my!  I  wonder  if  I  shall  hear  to-morrow  morning,  and 
what  I  shall  hear!  Perhaps  that  somebody  drove  you  wild  with 
snoring,  and  that  you  killed  him  and  threw  him  in  the  sea!  Had 
the  boatman  upset  the  boat  on  the  way  back,  and  drowned  little 
Nero  and  me,  on  purpose,  I  could  hardly  have  taken  it  ill  of  them, 
seeing  they  '  were  but  men,  of  like  passions  with  yourself.'  But  on 
the  contrary,  they  behaved  most  civilly  to  us,  offered  to  land  us  at 
any  pier  we  liked,  and  said  not  a  word  to  me  about  the  sixpence,  so 
I  gave  it  to  them  as  a  free  gift.  We  came  straight  home  in  the 
steamer,  where  Nero  went  immediately  to  sleep,  and  I  to  work. 

Miss  Wilson  called  in  the  afternoon,  extremely  agreeable ;  and 
after  tea  Ballantyne  came,  and  soon  after  Kingsley.  Ballantyne 
gave  me  the  ten  pounds,'  and  Kingsley  told  me  about  his  wife — that 
she  was  '  the  adorablest  wife  man  ever  had! '  Neither  of  these  men 
stayed  long.  I  went  to  bed  at  eleven,  fell  asleep  at  three,  and  rose 
at  six.  The  two  plumbers  were  rushing  about  the  kitchen  with 
boiling  lead;  an  additional  carpenter  was  waiting  for  my  directions 
about  '  the  cupboard '  at  the  bottom  of  the  kitchen  stair.  The  two 
usual  carpenters  were  hammering  at  the  floor  and  windows  of  the 
drawing-room.  The  bricklayer  rushed  in,  in  plain  clothes,  meas- 
ured the  windows  for  stone  sills  (?),  rushed  out  again,  and  came 
no  more  that  day.  After  breakfast  I  fell  to  clearing  out  the  front 
bedroom  for  the  bricklayers,  removing  everything  into  your  room. 
When  I  had  just  finished,  a  wild-looking  stranger,  with  a  paper 

» Borrowed,  doubtless. 


JANE  WELSH  CAKLYLE.  317 

cap,  rushed  up  the  stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time,  and  told  me  he  was 
'  sent  by  Mr.  Morgan  to  get  on  with  the  painting  of  Mr.  Carlyle's 
bedroom  during  his  absence ! '  I  was  so  taken  by  surprise  that  I  did 
not  feel  at  first  to  have  any  choice  in  the  matter,  and  told  him  he 
must  wait  two  hours  till  all  that  furniture  was  taken — somewhere. 

Then  I  came  in  mind  that  the  window  and  doors  had  to  be  re- 
paired, and  a  little  later  that  the  floor  was  to  be  taken  up !  Being 
desirous,  however,  not  to  refuse  the  good  the  gods  had  provided 
me,  I  told  the  man  he  might  begin  to  paint  in  my  bedroom;  but 
there  also  some  woodwork  was  unfinished. 

The  carpenters  thought  they  could  get  it  ready  by  next  morning. 
So  I  next  cleared  myself  a  road  into  your  bedroom,  and  fell  to 
moving  all  the  things  of  mine  up  there  also.  Certainly  no  lady  in 
London  did  such  a  hard  day's  work.     Not  a  soul  came  to  interrupt 

me  till  night,  when stalked  in  for  half-an-hour,  uncommonly 

dull.  '  It  must  have  taken  a  great  deal  to  make  a  man  so  dull  as 
that!'  I  never  went  out  till  ten  at  night,  when  I  took  a  turn  or 
two  on  Battersea  Bridge,  without  having  my  throat  cut. 

My  attempts  at  sleeping  last  night  were  even  more  futile  than 
the  preceding  one.  A  dog  howled  repeatedly,  near  hand,  in  that 
awful  manner  which  is  understood  to  prognosticate  death,  which, 
together  with  being  '  in  a  new  position,'  kept  me  awake  till  five. 
And  after  six  it  was  impossible  to  lie,  for  the  plumbers  were  in  the 
garret  and  the  bricklayers  in  the  front  bedroom !  Mr.  Morgan  came 
after  breakfast,  and  settled  to  take  up  the  floor  in  your  bedroom  at 
once.  So  to-day  all  the  things  have  had  to  be  moved  out  again 
down  to  my  bedroom,  and  the  painter  put  off;  and  to-night  I  am 
to  '  pursue  sleep  under  difficulties ' '  in  my  own  bed  again.  They 
got  on  fast  enough  with  the  destructive  part.  The  chimney  is  down 
and  your  floor  half  off! 

After  tea  I  '  cleaned  myself,'  and  walked  up  to  see  Miss  Farrar. 
She  and  her  sister  were  picnicking  at  Hampton  Court;  but  the  old 
mother  was  very  glad  of  me,  walked  half-way  back  with  me,  and 
gave  me  ice  at  Gunter's  in  passing.  I  am  to  have  a  dinner-tea  with 
them  next  Wednesday.  And  to-morrow  I  am  to  give  the  last  sit- 
ting for  my  picture,'''  and  take  tea  at  Mrs.  Sketchley's.  And  now  I 
must  go  to  bed  again — more's  the  pity. 

I  shall  leave  this  open,  in  case  of  a  letter  from  you  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

»  Pursuit  of  Knowledge  under  Difflculties,  &c.  (a  poor  book  of  that  time). 
"  By  Miss  Sketchley  (an  amateur  trying  to  become  artist). 


318  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Saturday. 
Thanks  God  too  for  some  four  hours  of  sleep  last  night.     I  don't 
mind  the  uproar  a  bit  now  that  you  are  out  of  it. 
Love  to  Mr.  Erskine ;  tell  him  to  write  to  me. 

Ever  yours,         J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  143. 

'Dalwig,'  grandson  of  the  famed  cavalry  general  of  Friedrich 
the  Great,  was  himself  a  Prussian  officer  of  horse;  from  Silesia, 
where  his  rank  and  possessions  were  ample;  as  fine,  handsome, 
intelligent,  brilliant,  and  modest  a  young  fellow  of  his  kind  as  I 
ever  saw.  '  Reichenbach '  (once  Graf  von  Reichenbach  and  his 
neighbour  and  friend)  brought  him  to  us  here;  where  he  met  Kate 
Sterling,  our  late  John's  second  daughter,  and  one  of  the  brightest 
of  young  women.  Dalwig,  much  struck  with  her,  was  evidently 
deliberating  great  things;  and  did,  before  long,  apply  formally  to 
Captain  Anthony  Sterling,  uncle  and  guardian,  for  the  'great  hon- 
our and  pleasure  of  making  some  acquaintance'  with  Kate.  To 
both  of  us,  who  knew  him,  it  seemed  precisely  the  offer  that  might 
suit  beyond  all,  both  for  the  noble  Kate  and  for  her  friends,  espe- 
cially her  sisters  ;  who  were  in  no  society  here  for  making  fit 
matches,  but  who  there,  in  Silesia,  haviug  portions  of  solid  amount, 
and  being  all  pretty  and  amiable,  need  not  fail  of  marrying  well  if 
they  cared  to  marry,  &c.,  &c. :  to  all  which  we  wished  cordially 
well,  but  kept,  and  had  kept,  strictly  silent  except  to  one  another. 
Abrupt  Captain  Anthony,  now  growing  elderly,  and  very  abrupt 
and  perverse,  was  not  slow  in  answering,  as  if  to  '  a  beggarly  for- 
eigner,' his  emphatic  No  1  To  which  Dalwig,  like  a  man  of  honour, 
at  once  bowed.  Bright  Kate  testified  all  along  a  maidenly  in- 
difference, maidenly  nescience,  but  was  not  thought  to  have  an 
averse  feeling. 

Poor,  ardent,  enthusiastic,  high-minded  Kate!  she  used  to  ride 
with  me  sometimes  in  those  years  ;  she  was  to  the  last  passionately 
the  friend  and  adorer  of  my  Jane  ;  perhaps  there  hardly  was  in 
England  a  brighter  young  creature;  and  her  fate  was  cruel — this 
of  Dalwig,  the  turning-point,  I  rather  think  !  Being  forbidden  our 
house  (abrupt  Captain  Anthony  being  in  some  tiff  of  his  own  here), 
she  frequented  'uncle  Maurice's,' where  no  foreigners  frequented, 
but  only  young  '  unsound '  divines  much  did.  One  of  these 
.  .  .  .  she  did,  on  her  own  footing — '  over  twenty-one  now  ! ' 
— give  her  hand  to  :  .  .  .  .  was  at  length  declared  to  be  con- 
sumptive, and  in  four  or  five  years  died She  was  very- 
beautiful,  very  high  and  heroic  ;  father  and  mother  both  beauti- 
fully noticeable  in  her,  and  if  as  changed  into  a  still  finer  tertium 
quid  both  of  person  and,  still  more,  of  mind. — T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Linlathen,  Dundee. 

Chelsea:  Tuesday,  July  27,  1852. 
Now  you  are  not  here  to  paint  out  the  horrors  of  every  kind  so 
eloquently,  I  don't  care,  the  least  in  the  world,  about  the  noise,  or 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  319 

the  dust,  or  the  tumble  heels  over  head,  of  the  whole  house.  All  I 
am  concerned  about  is,  to  get  it  rapidly  on;  which,  as  builders  and 
builders'  men  are  at  present  constituted,  seems  pretty  much  of  an  im- 
possibility. Yesterday  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Morgan  to  talie  back  the  third 
carpenter,  and  bestow  him  on  somebody  with  more  patience  and  a 
less  correct  eye  than  myself.  But  it's  worse  than  useless  plaguing 
you,  in  your  cold,  clean  retirement  there,  with  the  worries  from 
which  you  have  just  fled  away.  Best  you  should  forget  the  sound 
of  our  hammering  altogether  ;  so  I  will  henceforth  fight  my  own 
battle  with  the  house,  without  saying  a  word  about  it. 

Better  news  for  you  is,  that  Lord  Asliburton  is  '  greatly  better, 
quite  well  since  the  last  attack,  and  gone  on  to  the  place  in  Switzer- 
land.' Such  was  the  answer  to  a  message  of  inquiry  which  I  sent 
to  Bath  House  on  Sunday.  '  His  lordship  had  written  himself  '  to 
the  large  housemaid.     So  all  is  right  in  that  direction. 

Poor  Dalwig  is  gone  away.  He  came  on  Saturday  with  Reichen- 
bach  to  bid  me  farewell.  I  gave  him  the  copy  of  the  '  Life  of 
Sterling '  I  extorted  from  you  for  Mrs.  Newton,  who  never  got  it ; 
not  in  memor}-  of  Kate  I  told  him,  but  of  myself  ;  and  he  blushed 
and  kissed  my  hand,  and  went  away  rather  sad,  but  with  as  manly 
and  dashing  a  bearing  as  if  Kate  had  been  ever  so  kind.  I  don't  be- 
lieve the  girl  will  ever  have  such  another  chance  in  her  whole  life. 

There  was  also  here  one  day  a  Rev.  Llewelyn  Davies,  Lincoln. 
Do  you  know  such  a  person  ?  He  asked  for  me,  on  hearing  you 
were  absent ;  shook  bands  with  me,  sat  talking  half-an-hour  with 
me  as  if  we  were  friends  ;  and  did  all  this  so  coolly  and  naturally 
that  he  left  me  persuaded  I  hud  known  him  some  time.  Did  I  ever 
know  liim  ?'  Clough,  too,  was  here  last  night;  and  Miss  Wilson 
again,  to  offer  me  her  carriage  '  to  do  any  business  I  might  have.' 

She  promised  to  drink  tea  with  me  on  my  return  from  Sher- 
borne ;^  where  I  still  mean  to  go  on  Friday,  and  stay  till  Monday. 
It  is  a  long  way  to  go  for  so  short  a  time.  But  I  should  repent  it 
afterwards  if  I  did  not  gratify  tliat  poor  dear  woman's  wish  to  see 
me  once  more. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  W.  Caklyle. 


>  Never;  nor  I. 

'  Going  thither  to  Tisit  good  Mrs.  Macready,  who  was  now  ill,  and,  indeed, 
dying. 


820  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  143. 
T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  Aug.  5, 1852. 

You  recollect,  dear,  that  Macready  told  me  of  two  routes,  recom- 
mending that  by  Frome  as  the  quickest  and  least  fatiguing;  so  I 
rendered  myself  at  the  Paddington  station  on  Friday  morning, 
with  my  night-things  in  a  bag  ou  one  arm  and  my  '  blessed '  Mn  a 
basket  on  the  other.  He  gave  me  no  trouble,  kept  himself  hidden 
and  motionless  till  the  train  started,  and  then  looked  out  cautiously, 
as  much  as  to  say,  '  Are  we  safe  ? '  The  journey  to  Frome  was 
quite  a  rest  after  that  morning's  work  (carrying  down  all  the  books 
from  the  top  landing-place  into  the  back  parlour),  and  I  descended 
from  the  train  quite  fresh  for  the  thirty  miles  by  coach. 

But  when  I  inquired  about  the  coach  to  Sherborne,  I  was  told 
there  was  none.  '  A  coach  passing  through  Sherborne  passed 
through  Frome  without  coming  to  the  station  at  eleven  in  the 
morning,'  three  hours  before  the  time  we  were  at  ;  'no  other  since 
many  months  back.'  My  first  thought  was,  'What  a  mercy  you 
were  not  with  me  ! '  my  next,  that  the  Macreadys  could  not  blame 
me  for  keeping  them  waiting  ;  and  then  I  'considered,'  like  the 
piper's  cow,  and  resolved  not  to  stay  all  day  and  night  at  Frome, 
but  to  take  a  Yeovil  coach,  which  started  at  five,  and  which  could 
take  me,  I  was  told,  to  a  wayside  inn  within  eight  miles  of  Sher- 
borne, and  there  I  hoped  to  find  a  fly  'or  something.'  Meanwhile 
I  would  proceed  to  the  town  of  Frome,  a  mile  from  the  station, 
and  get  something  to  eat,  and  even  to  drink,  '  feeling  it  my  duty  ' 
to  keep  my  heart  up  by  all  needful  appliances.  I  left  my  little  bag 
at  the  station,  where  the  coach  came,  and  set  my  dog  quite  free, 
and  we  pursued  our  way  as  calmly  and  naturally  as  if  we  had 
known  where  we  were  going. 

Frome  is  a  dull,  dirty-looking  place,  full  of  plumbers  ;  one  could 
fancy  the  Bennett  controversy'  must  have  been  a  godsend  to  it.  I 
saw  several  inns,  and  chose  'The  George'  for  its  name's  sake.  I 
walked  in  and  asked  to  have  some  cold  meat  and  a  pint  bottle  of 
Guiuness's  porter.  They  showed  me  to  an  ill-aired  parlour,  and 
brouglit  me  some  cold  lamb  that  the  flies  had  been  buzzing  round 


1  Dog  Nero. 

*  Something  in  the  newspaper. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  321 

for  a  week — even  Nero  disdained  to  toiich  it.  I  ate  bread,  however, 
and  drank  all  the  porter  ;  and  '  tlie  clia-arge  '•  for  that  feeble  refec- 
tion was  2s.  %d.  !  Already  I  had  paid  one  pound  eight  and  six- 
pence for  the  train.  It  was  going  to  be  a  most  unexpectedly  costly 
journey  to  me.  But  for  that  reflection  I  could  almost  have  laughed 
at  my  forlorn  position  there. 

The  inn  and  town  were  '  so  disagreeable  '  that  I  went  presently 
back  to  the  station,  preferring  to  wait  there.  One  of  the  men  who 
had  informed  me  about  the  coach  came  to  me,  as  I  was  sitting  on 
a  bench,  and  remarked  on  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  especially  of 
some  scarlet  beans  that  were  growing  in  his  own  piece  of  garden. 
'  Ah,'  he  said,  '  I  have  lived  in  London,  and  I  have  lived  abroad  ; 
I  have  been  here  and  there,  backwards  and  forwards,  while  I  was 
in  service  with  them  as  never  could  rest;  but  I  am  satisfied  now 
that  the  only  contentment  for  man  is  in  growing  his  own  vegeta- 
ble! Look  at  them  beans,'  he  said  again.  'Well!  to-morrow 
they'll  be  ready,  and  I'll  be  pulling  them,  and  boiling  them,  and 
eating  them — and  such  a  taste !  No  agriculture  like  that  in  Picca- 
dilly! '  Then  he  looked  sympathisingly  at  me  and  said,  '  I'm  going 
to  get  you  something  you'll  like,  and  that's  a  glass  of  cool,  fresh, 
clear  water; '  and  he  went  away  with  a  jug  to  his  garden  and  fetched 
some  water  from  a  little  spring  well  and  a  great  handful  of  mig- 
nonette. 'There!  there's  something  sweet  for  you,  and  here's 
splendid  water,  that  you  won't  find  the  like  of  in  Piccadilly ! '  I 
asked  him  how  it  was  going  with  Mr.  Bennett?  '  Huh!  I  hear  no 
complaints,  but  I  goes  to  neither  one  nor  other  of  them,  and  fol- 
lows my  own  notions.  I  finds  agriculture  the  thing!'  He  would 
have  been  worth  a  hundred  pounds  to  Dickens,  that  man. 

I  had  the  coach  all  to  myself  for  a  while;  then  a  young  gentleman 
got  in,  who  did  exactly  the  right  thing  by  me,  neither  spoke  to  me 
nor  looked  at  me  till  we  stopped  at  Castle  Carey  (Yeovil  is  pro- 
nounced Youghal,  Carey  Carry?  I  grew  quite  frightened  that  I 
had  been  somehow  transported  into  Ireland).  There  the  young 
gentleman  went  into  the  inn,  and  said  to  me  fij'st,  '  Excuse  the 
liberty  I  take  in  asking,  but  would  you  take  anything— a  little  wine 

>  In  my  first  voyage  to  London  (1834,  by  Leith  smack),  a  certain  very  rustic- 
looking,  but  polite  and  quiet,  old  baronet,  called  Sir  David  Milne,  slept  in  the 
same  cabin  with  me ;  and  there  and  on  deck  was  an  amusing  human  study. 
Courteous,  solemn,  yet  awkward,  dull;  chewing  away  the  r  when  he  spoke, 
which  indeed  was  seldom,  and  then  mainly  in  the  way  of  economic  inquiry  to 
passengers  who  knew  Loudon — what  you  could  do  there,  see,  eat,  &c. ;  and  to 
every  item,  the  farther  question:  '  And  what  is  the  cha-arge  (charge)? ' 

14* 


322  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  water?'  I  thought  that  very  polite;  but  I  was  to  meet  with 
'something  more  exquisite  still '  before  I  got  to  Sherborne.  At  the 
'  Sparkford  Inn,'  eight  miles  from  Sherborne,  I  got  out  and  asked, 
had  they  a  fly?  'Yes,  but  one  of  its  wheels  was  broken,  and  it 
was  gone  to  be  mended!'  'Had  they  any  other  conveyance  that 
was  whole — a  gig  or  cart? '  '  Yes,  they  had  a  nice  little  gig,  and  I 
should  have  the  loan  of  a  cloak  to  keep  me  warm  '  (the  evening 
was  rather  chill).  So  I  went  in,  and  sat  down  in  a  parlour;  where 
an  old  gentleman  was  finishing  off  with  bread-and-cheese.  He 
soon  made  himself  master  of  my  case,  and  regretted  he  was  not 
going  back  to  Sherborne  that  night,  as  then  he  would  have  taken 
me  in  his  carriage;  and  presently  he  offered  something  else  more 
practical,  viz.,  to  try  to  recover  my  parasol  (my  mother's,  the  one 
she  bought  with  the  sovereign  you  gave  her,'  and  which  I  had  got 
new  covered),  left  stupidly  on  the  roof  of  the  coach,  and  never 
recollected  till  the  coach,  with  its  four  horses,  had  thundered  past 
the  window !  If  the  landlady  would  tell  the  coachman  about  it 
next  day,  and  get  it  there,  he,  the  old  gentleman,  would  bring  it  to 
Sherborne  House.  I  went  into  the  lobby  to  tell  the  landlady,  some 
five  or  eight  minutes  after  the  coach  had  started,  and  told  her  in 
presence  of  a  gentleman,  who  was  preparing  to  start  in  a  barouch- 
ette  with  two  horses.  He  looked  hard  at  me,  but  said  nothing; 
and  a  minute  or  two  after  I  saw  him  also  drive  past  the  window. 
Some  twenty  minutes  after,  I  started  myself,  in  a  little  gig,  with  a 
brisk  little  horse  and  silent  driver.  Nothing  could  be  more  pleas- 
ant than  so  pirring  through  quiet  roads,  in  the  dusk,  with  the  moon 
coming  out.  I  felt  as  I  were  reading  about  myself  in  a  Miss  Austen 
novel.  But  it  got  beyond  Miss  Austen  when,  at  the  end  of  some 
three  miles,  before  a  sort  of  carrier's  inn,  the  gentleman  of  the 
barouchette  stept  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  making  a  sort  of 
military  signal  to  my  driver,  which  he  repeated  with  impatience 
when  the  man  did  not  at  once  draw  up!  I  sat  confounded,  expect- 
ing what  he  would  do  next.  "We  had  halted;  the  gentleman  came 
to  my  side,  and  said,  exactly  as  in  a  book :  '  Madam,  I  have  the 
happiness  of  informing  you  that  I  have  reclaimed  your  parasol; 
and  it  lies  here  in  my  carriage  ready  to  be  restored!'  'But  how 
on  earth?'  I  asked.  'Madam,  I  judged  that  it  would  be  more 
pleasing  for  you  to  take  the  parasol  along  with  yourself  than  to 
trust  to  its  being  brought  by  the  other  gentleman ;  so  I  just  gal- 

1  A  sovereign  to  each  of  them,  on  returning  home  with  a  pocketful  from  my 
'  fisrt  lecture.'    Ah,  me! 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  333 

loped  my  horses,  overtook  the  coach  as  it  was  leaviug  this  court, 
reclaimed  the  parasol,  and  have  waited  here,  knowing  you  could 
take  no  other  road  to  Sherborne,  for  the  happiness  of  presenting  it 
to  you! ' — To  an  ostler — '  Bring  the  parasol! '  It  was  brought,  and 
handed  to  me.  And  then  I  found  myself  making  a  speech  in  the 
same  style,  caught  by  the  infection  of  the  thing.  I  said :  '  Sir, 
this  day  has  been  full  of  mischances  for  me,  but  I  regard  the  re- 
covery of  my  parasol  so  unexpectedly  as  a  good  omen,  and  have  a 
confidence  that  I  shall  now  reach  my  destination  in  safety.  Accejit 
my  thanks,  though  it  is  impossible  to  give  any  adequate  expression 
to  my  sense  of  your  courtesy ! '  I  never  certainly  made  so  long 
and  formal  a  speech  in  my  life.  And  how  I  came  to  make  any- 
thing like  it  I  can't  imagine,  unless  it  were  under  mesmerism!  "We 
bowed  to  each  other  like  first  cousins  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and 
I  pirred  on.  '  Do  you  know  that  gentleman? '  I  asked  my  driver. 
'  Never  saw  him  before. ' 

I  found  Sherborne  House  without  difiiculty;  and  a  stately,  beau- 
tiful house  it  was,  and  a  kind  welcome  it  had  for  me.  The  mistake 
had  been  discovered  in  the  morning,  and  great  anxiety  felt  all  day 
as  to  my  fate.  I  was  wonderfully  little  tired,  and  able  to  make 
them  all  (her  too)  laugh  with  my  adventures.  But  I  must  posi- 
tively interrupt  this  penny-a-lining,  and  go  to  bed.  It  is  true  to 
the  letter,  all  I  have  told. 

My  two  days  at  Sherborne  House  were  as  happy  as  could  pos- 
sibly be  with  that  fearfully  emaciated,  djnng  woman  before  my 
eyes.  They  were  all  doing  their  best  to  be  cheerful — herself  as 
cheerful  as  the  others.  She  never  spoke  of  her  death,  except  in 
taking  leave  of  me;  when  she  took  my  head  in  her  hand,  and 
kissed  it,  and  gave  me  her  solemn  blessing,  and  asked  me  to  come 
again  with  you,  to  see  William  and  the  children,  when  she  should 
be  gone.  That  was  a  dreadful  trial  of  my  composure.  I  am  so 
glad  I  went,  it  pleased  her  and  all  of  them  so  much ! 

The  journey  back  by  Dorchester  went  all  right;  and  was  less  ex- 
pensive, for  I  came  by  the  second-class,  and  so  saved  the  nine  shil- 
lings my  gig  had  cost  me.  It  was  a  weary  long  way,  however, 
from  a  quarter  before  nine  till  half  after  seven  flying  along  in  one 
shape  or  other,  with  only  ten  minutes'  delay  (at  Southampton). 
My  only  adventure  on  the  road  back  was  falling  in  with  a  young 
unfortunate  female  in  the  Chelsea  boat,  the  strangest  compound  of 
angel  and  devil  that  I  ever  set  eyes  on,  and  whom,  had  I  been  a 
great,  rich  lady,  I  should  decidedly  have — brought  home  to  tea 


324  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

■with  me  and  tried  'to  save!'  The  helpless  thought  that  I  had 
nothing  to  offer  her  instead  alone  prevented  me.  I  could  not  leave 
her,  however,  without  speaking  to  her,  and  my  words  were  so 
moving,  through  my  own  emotion,  that  she  rushed  from  me  in 
tears  to  the  other  side  of  the  vessel.  You  may  feel  a  certain  curi- 
osity to  know  what  I  said.  I  only  recollect  something  about  '  her 
mother,  alive  or  dead,  and  her  evident  superiority  to  the  life  she 
was  leading.'  She  said,  '  Do  you  think  so,  ma'm? '  with  a  look  of 
bitter  wretchedness,  and  forced  gaiety  that  I  shall  never  forget. 
She  was  trying  to  smile  defiantly,  when  she  burst  into  tears  and 
ran  away. 

I  made  a  frantic  appeal  to  the  workmen  the  other  day,  since 
when  we  have  been  getting  on  a  little  more  briskly.  The  spokes- 
man of  them,  a  dashing  young  man,  whom  you  have  not  seen, 
answered  me:  'My  dear  (!)  madam,  you  must  have  patience, 
indeed  you  must;  it  will  be  all  done — some  day! '  The  weather  is 
most  lovely.     Monsieur  le  TTiermomUre  pretty  generally  at  70°. 

My  health  continues  wonderfully  good.  To-day  I  dine  at  the 
Brookfields',  for  what  poor  Helen  used  to  call  '  a  fine  change.' 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  C. 

LETTER  144. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Tuesday  night,  Aug.  10,  1852. 
Oh,  my  dear,  what  a  comfortless  letter!  In  your  last  from  Linla- 
then  you  said  you  were  '  decidedly  better,'  and  now  again  you  seem 
to  be  again  'all  nohow.'  I  hope  it  has  only  been  the  fag  of  the 
journey.  Don't  fret  about  the  house;  it  is  getting  on  pretty  fast 
now,  and  will  be  satisfactory  when  finished.  For  my  part,  I  am 
got  quite  used  to  the  disturbance,  and  begin  to  like  the — what  shall 
I  say? — excitement  of  it.  To  see  something  going  on,  and  to  help 
its  going  on,  fulfils  a  great  want  of  my  nature.  I  have  prevented  so 
many  mistakes  being  made,  and  afforded  so  many  capital  sugges- 
tions, that  I  begin  to  feel  rather  proud  of  myself,  and  to  suspect  I 
must  have  been  a  builder  in  some  previous  state  of  existence.  The 
painter  is  my  chief  delight;  he  does  his  work  so  thoroughly.  He  is 
only  in  your  bedroom  as  yet,  but  he  has  rubbed  it  all  down  with 
pumicestone,  till  it  looks  as  smooth  as  paper.  And  I  have  never 
been  inconvenienced  by  any  smell !  Perhaps  the  house  may  be  habit- 
able a  week  or  two  sooner  than  I  guessed,  though  I  hardly  think 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  325 

the  workmen  will  be  fairly  out  of  it  sooner.  I  sha/1  '  see  my  way ' 
better  next  week.  The  weather  is  capital  for  drying  both  paint  and 
plaster,  that  is  one  blessing!  My  half  of  the  low  room  is  kept 
always  tidy;  the  bedding,  and  tables  with  their  legs  in  the  air,  as  if 
in  convulsions,  which  show  themselves  above  the  screen,  often  make 
me  laugh.  When  the  noise  is  very  great  I  practise  on  the  piano!  I 
do  quite  well,  in  short;  and  don't  see  how  I  can  be  spared  till  things 
are  done  to  my  mind,  and  the  chaotic  heaps  of  furniture  restored  to 
their  proper  places.     Decidedly  nobody  but  myself  can  do  that. 

I  found  your  letter  to-day  on  my  return  from  Tavistock  House, 
where  I  had  gone  to  see  Forster.  He  is  staying  there  for  a  change, 
in  the  absence  of  the  Dickenses.  I  had  promised  the  Mac- 
readys  to  go,  and  tell  him  about  her,  and  found  no  time  till  to-day. 
I  went  by  the  boat  to  Paul's  Wharf,  like  a  goose,  and  found  mj'self 
so  far  off  my  destination !  Besides,  a  violent  thunder-shower  fell 
just  as  I  set  my  foot  on  land,  and  having  on  a  pair  of  those  cheap 
boots  I  bought  a  stock  of  (chiefly  paper,  Mr.  Carlyle!),  my  feet 
were  wet  through  in  two  minutes.  I  went  in  a  shop  and  bought  a 
pair  of  stockings,  then  on  till  I  found  a  good-looking  shoe-shop, 
and  bought  a  pair  of  real  boots;  left  my  dripping  stockings  and 
paper  boots  with  the  shoemaker,  requesting  that  when  they  were 
dry,  and  not  till  then,  he  would  pack  them  up  and  send  them  to  the 
care  of  Forster;  and  so  proceeded  on  my  long  walk  dry-shod. 
Cleverly  managed,  don't  you  think?  and  '  regardless  of  expense.' 
Forster  was  very  glad  to  see  me.  He  is  a  little  less  helpless,  but 
still  on  fish  diet.  I  got  into  a  Holborn  omnibus  after,  which  left 
me  at  the  top  of  Regent  Street;  and  then  I  went  to  Verey's,  and 
had — a  beautiful  little  mutton  chop  and  a  glass  of  bitter  ale!  That 
is  the  sort  of  thing  I  do!  It  was  my  second  dinner  at  Verey's. 
Meat  dinners  at  home  are  as  nearly  impossible  as  can  be,  and  one 
sleeps  ill  on  tea-dinners.  The  charge  at  Verey's  is  very  moderate, 
and  the  cooking  perfect.  For  my  dinner  and  ale  to-day  I  paid  one- 
and-fivepence.  The  day  I  went  to  the  Foundry  I  dined  at  a  clean- 
looking  shop  in  the  Strand,  where  I  had  half  a  roast  cbichen  (warm; 
very  small  indeed),  a  large  slice  of  warm  ham,  and  three  new 
potatoes,  for  one  shilling!  It  amuses  me,  all  that,  besides  keeping 
me  in  health;  and  for  the  outrage  to  'delicate  fenialeism,'  I  am 
beyond  all  such  considerations  at  present.  However,  I  !r:ee  single 
women  besides  myself  at  Verey's — not  improper — governesses,  and 
the  like.     And  now  good-night;  I  am  off  to  bed. 

Wednesday. — Ah!  it  is  a  tempting  of  Providence  always  to  con- 


326  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

gratulate  oneself  on  the  weather!  To-day  it  '  is  pouring  hale  water  • 
(as  Helen  used  to  say),  and  has  so  poured  all  night.  If  it  weren't 
for  the  paint  and  plaster's  sake  I  should  have  no  objection.  I  called 
at  the  London  Library  yesterday  on  my  way  home  to  get  Madame 
de  Stael's  '  Memoires '  for  Count  Reichenbach.  Mr.  Donne  '  never 
comes  out  of  that  end  room  seemingly.  Mr.  Jones  was  '  absent 
three  days  for  a  little  pleasuring.'  The  tall  young  man  was  on  the 
eve  of  his  departure;  had  '  found  on  trial  of  six  years  that  the  place 
didn't  suit  him.'    He  was  going  to  embark  in  a  silk  manufactory  at 

Derby — 'a    very   good   opening    indeed.'       Mrs.    H M 

(did  I  tell  you?)  left  your  books  and  a  card  for  me  just  before  leaving 
town.  Dilberoglue  might  surely  call  that  '  glorious  prudence ! ' 
Nevertheless  she  might  have  safely  relied  on  her  own  powers  of 
boring  me,  and  on  my  general  indisposition  to  intrude!  God  help 
us!  I  don't  know  of  any  fine  people  remaining  except  the  Farrars, 
who  can't  get  away  for  fear  of  their  liouse  being  robbed.  Mazzini 
was  here  on  Sunday  morning,  and  made  my  hair  stand  on  end  with 
his  projects.  If  he  is  not  shot,  or  in  an  Austrian  fortress  within 
the  month,  it  will  be  more  by  good  luck  llian  good  guiding.  I  rely 
on  the  promise,  '  God  is  kind  to  woman,  fools,  and  drunk  people.' 

Kind  love  to  your  mother  and  all  of  them.  After  going  all  that 
way  to  Sherborne  for  two  days,  who  knows  whether  I  shan't  run  to 
Scotsbrig  for  two  days  and  see  her  when  she  is  not  thinking  of  me? 

Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

If  you  won't  go  to  Germany  alone,  and  don't  much  like  the  no- 
tion, is  there  no  little  lodging  to  be  got  by  the  seaside,  within  reach 
of  Scotsbrig's  butter  and  eggs,  for  two  or  three  weeks,— for  your- 
self, I  mean? 

LETTER  145. 
T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Saturday,  Aug.  14, 1853. 
'With  the  best  intentions  always  unfortunate.'  I  was  putting 
together  my  packet  yesterday,  when  Dr.  Weber''  came,  and  stayed 
long  enough  to  belate  the  whole  affair.  He  seemed  bent  on  coming 
up  to  the  immense  expectations  I  must  have  formed  of  liim.  And 
that  excessive  desire  to  please  was  just  what  I  disliked  him  for.     But 

*  Now  librarian;  excellent  old  Cochrane  dead. 

^  Late  travelling  doctor  to  the  Ashburtons,  who  are  at  Salzburg,  &c. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  327 

he  is  clever  and  gentlemanly,  and  thoroughgoing,  to  appearance  at 
least,  when  looked  at  in  front ;  for  the  hack  of  his  head  and  neck,  and 
all  down,  has  a  different  character,  much  less  bred,  and  less  intellect- 
ual ;  '  the  human  curve ' '  not  so  well  defined.  He  reminds  me  of  a 
statue  that  had  been  perfectly  polished  in  front,  and  left  rough-hewn 
behind,  to  stand  with  its  back  to  a  wall.  He  gave  me  the  most 
flourishing  accounts  of  Lord  and  Lady  A.  And  we  parted  after 
'  swearing  everlasting  friendship '  to  a  certain  very  limited  extent. 

Your  letter  came  after;  and  also,  alas!  came  news,  through  Mr. 
Piper,^  of  the  death  of  Mazzini's  mother.  The  accounts  had  been 
written  to  Mrs.  Hawkes  in  two  letters.  She  found  them  on  her 
return  from  town,  where  she  had  been  all  day,  and,  opening  first 
the  letter  which  told  only  of  a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  she  rushed  off  to 
Mazzini  with  the  news.  Having  returned  to  her  own  house,  she 
opened  the  second  letter,  which,  in  her  agitation,  she  had  not  locked 
at,  and  found  it  an  announcement  of  death,  and  so  had  again  to  go 
to  Mazzini.  He  is  dreadfully  struck  down,  the  Pipers  say,  I  have 
not  seen  him.  I  wrote  him  a  few  lines  last  night,  and  took  them  up 
myself,  but  would  not  go  to  him,  though  Mrs.  Piper  thought  it 
might  be  good  for  him  to  see  me.  I  am  sure  there  are  too  many 
bothering  him  with  kindness. 

Kind  regards  to  all. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jai^e  W.  C, 

LETTER  146. 

Under  way  for  Germany  at  last.  My  first  visit.  I  remember  too 
well  the  base  miseries,  and  even  horrors  (physical,  chiefly),  which 
had  now  begun  for  me,  and  did  not  cease  till  the  voj^age  did.  At 
midnight  (August  29  it  must  have  been)  I  embarked  at  Leith  on  a 
small  Rotterdam  steamer  (laden  to  the  lip  with  iron  I  found,  and  the 
uueasiest  of  kicking  little  wretches);  never  sailed  in  such  a  craft 
before,  or  since;  rested  little,  slept  worse  (except  on  a  bench  in  the 
Rhine  steamboat)  till  I  got  to  Bonn.  Neuberg  waiting  on  the  beach 
for  me — Neuberg — but  not  any  sleep  there  either.     Ffui! 

Hon.  Byng.  called  Poodle  Byng  all  his  days,  the  Eton  name  he 
had. 

'  Engrush  '  for  '  ingratiate'  (a  very  old  (>xprossion  of  ours). 

Car  il  etaittres  (Uinahle,  »&c. :  Robespiern; — a  Parisian  myth  which 
G.  Lewes  used  to  give  us  witli  lirst-rate  mimicry.  &c. 

Fanny  is  '  Irish  Fanny,'  whom  I  recollect  well ;  she  was  by  nature 
a  very  good  girl  (and  got  full  generously  treated  here,  even  to  the 

•  Mazzini's  phrase.    Plattnauer,  for  fat,  was  '  losing  the  human  curve.' 

*  Mazzini  lodging  willi  Piper. 


328  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

saving  of  lier  life,  I  might  say),  and  she  did  well  for  a  year  or  more; 
but  after  that  sank  to  the  common  level  or  below  it,  and  had  to 
disappear  like  the  others. 

'Beautiful  enthusiasm.' — Foolish,  inflated  English  lady,  of  the 
elderly  governess  kind,  who  once  came  to  us  at  Craigenputtock 
(where  we  had  little  need  of  her),  spoke  much  to  her  of  a  '  Ba-ing 
I  could  love,'  'Brush  the  down  from  the  cheek  of,'  &c. — T.  C. 


To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Bonn. 

Chelsea:  Tuesday  night,  Sept.  1852. 

When  I  returned  from  Addiscombe  yesterday  forenoon,  I  saw  a 
letter  on  the  table,  and  cut  short  poor  Nero's  vehement  leaping  to 
take  it;  and  lo!  it  was  my  own  letter  from  Rotterdam,  addressed  to 
the  London  Library,  St.  James'  Square !  a  fact  which  puzzled  me 
extremely.  '  An  old  man '  had  brought  it  from  there,  and  said  '  a 
shilling  had  been  paid  for  it,'  the  second  shilling  the  unlucky  dnd 
had  cost.  By-and-by  I  noticed  that  the  envelope  had  the  London 
Library  mark  on  it,  and  then  the  small  mystery  was  solved.  I  had 
written  the  letter  at  the  London  Library,  after  some  hours  of  wild 
galloping  in  a  street  cab  to  ascertain  about  the  passport:  indeed  that 
passport  affair  was  as  pretty  a  version  of  '  Simon  Brodie's  Cow '  as 
any  I  have  lately  had  on  hand.  To-day  I  have  io  thank  you  for  a 
letter  more  agreeable  to  receive  than  that  one.  As  you  have  not 
got  '  stolen  or  strayed '  hitherto,  one  may  now  feel  a  moderate 
assurance  that  you  will  be  safely  landed  at  the  far  end  of  this 
journey  to — what  shall  I  say? — Flaetz  ! '  Neuberg  being  not  likely 
either  to  lose  sight  of  you,  or  to  lose  patience  with  you. 

The  Addiscombe  programme  was  only  once  changed.  We  went 
on  the  Saturday  instead  of  the  Friday,  separately  of  course ;  I  by 

steamboat  and  railway.     The  G s,  baby  and  all,  came  about  an 

hour  after  me;  and  an  hour  after  them  the  Poodle.  Mrs.  G. 
was  as  sweet  as  syrup,  and  dreadfully  tiresome,  her  husband 
engrushing  himself,  tres  aimable  dans  la  societe,  and  the  baby  a  '  bit 
of  fascination '  seemingly  for  every  one  but  me.  The  visit  went  off 
harmoniously,  but  I  got  no  better  sleep  in  my  entirely  curtainless 
bed  there  than  among  the  bugs  at  number  two.'''   On  Monday  forenoon 

the  G s  and  I  came  back  together  by  the  railway.     Lady  A. 

was  to  come  too,  and  sleep  at  Bath  House,  and  go  to  the  Grange 

1  Flatz  (Jean  Paul's  Schmelze). 

»  In  Cheyne  Row,  where  she  had  slept  once  during  the  repairs  in  Carlyle's 
own  house.— J.  A.  F. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  329 

this  morning.    Mr.  G invited  me  to  dine  with  them  the  same 

evening;  but  I  preferred  a  chop  and  silence  at  home.  He  seems 
to  be  very  fond  of  me,  has  a  perception,  I  think,  that  I  don't  adore 
his  wife,  and  is  grateful  to  me  for  that.  I  was  engaged  to  tea  at 
the  Farrars  to-night;  but  a  note  came  from  Annie  to  say  that  her 
mother  was  lying  ill  with  a  blister  on  her  back,  and  her  sister 
brought  home  from  a  visit  she  had  been  making  with  her  nose 
broken,  and  otherwise  all  smashed  by  a  dreadful  fall.  Poor  girl! 
I  saw  her  the  day  before  I  went  to  Addiscombe  looking  so  pretty. 

Thursday  mwning. — At  this  point  I  stopped  on  Tuesday  night, 
the  thunder  and  rain  becoming -too  loud  'for  anything.'  It  was 
still  raining  violently  when  I  went  to  bed  (in your  room — the  bed  up; 
for  the  rest,  carpetless  and  full  of  lumber),  so  I  left  only  one  of  the 
windows  open ;  and  what  with  the  paint  smell,  and  the  fatigue  of 
having  nailed  up  all  the  hangings  myself,  and  the  want  of  sleep  at 
number  two  and  at  Addiscombe,  I  took  quite  ill  in  the  middle  of 
the  night — colic,  and  such  headache!  In  the  morning  I  crawled 
down  to  the  sofa  in  the  parlour,  and  lay  there  all  day,  till  eleven  at 
night,  in  desperate  agony,  with  a  noise  going  on  around  me  like 
the  crack  of  doom.'  If  it  had  not  been  for  Fanny's  kindness,  who, 
when  all  else  that  she  could  do  failed,  fairly  took  to  crying  and 
sobbing  over  me,  I  think  I  must  have  died  of  the  very  horror  and 
desolation  of  the  thing;  for  the  plasterers  came  back  yesterday  to 
finish  the  cornice  in  the  new  room,  and  the  bricklayers  were  tramp- 
ing out  and  in  repairing  the  backyard ;  and  the  painter  was  making 
a  rare  smell  of  new  paint  in  my  old  bedroom;  besides  the  two  car- 
penters, into  whose  head  the  devil  put  it  to  saw  the  whole  day,  at 
God  knows  what,  without  a  moment's  intermission,  except  to 
hammer.  I  have  passed  a  good  many  bad  days  in  this  world,  but 
certainly  never  one  so  utterly  wretched  from  mere  physical  and 
material  causes  as  yesterday.  It  is  over  now,  however,  that  bout, 
and  I  should  be  thankful  to  have  held  out  so  long. 

In  the  evening  came  a  note,  which  I  was  not  up  to  looking  at  till 
some  hours  after,  when  lo !  it  was  a  few  hurry-scurry  lines  from 
John,  to  say  that  he  and  '  the  Ba-ing '  were  actually  engaged ;  they 
were  all  well,  I  was  to  tell  you,  and  had  got  your  letter.  No  news- 
paper reached  me  except  the  AthencBum,  which  I  supposed  had 
been  overlooked  at  Scotsbrig.  I  hope  poor  John  is  '  making  a  good 
thing  of  it;'  the  'parties'  having  known  each  other  for  fifteen 
years,  it  is  possible  they  mayn't  be  marrying  on  a  basis  of  fiction. 

'  Oh,  heavens!    How  can  I  endure  all  that? 


330  LETTERS  AND  MEMOEIALS  OF 

Reflecting  with  a  half-tragical,  half-comical  feeling  that  John  was 
just  my  own  age,  I  turned  to  another  letter  still  lying  unopened,  and 
found  what  might  have  been  a  proposal  of  marriage  to— myself  !  had 
you  not  been  alive  at  Bonn.  A  man  who,  having  wished  to  marry 
me  at  fifteen,  and  'with  the  best  intentions  proved  unfortunate,'  and 
whom  I  had  seen  but  once  these  twenty  years,  now  '  thought  him- 
self sufficiently  master  of  his  emotions  to  dare  to  tell  me  that  for 
nearly  forty  years  (!)  he  had  loved  me  with  the  same  worshipful 
love — me,  the  only  human  soul  who  ever  possessed  the  key  to  his 
locked  heart  ! '  And  they  say  man  is  an  inconstant  animal ! 
Poor  fellow  !  I  am  afraid  he  mu^  be  going  to  die,  or  to  go  mad, 
or  he  would  have  continued  to  pursue  the  silent  system,  which  use 
must  have  rendered  easy  to  him.  The  practical  inference  from  all 
this,  and  a  good  deal  more  I  could  instance,  is  that  the  laws  of 
nature  in  the  matter  of  love  seem  decidedly  to  be  getting  themselves 
new  made ;  '  the  bloom '  not  to  be  so  '  speedily  swept  from  the 
cheek  of  that  beautiful  enthusiasm.' 

You  may  calculate  on  having  your  bedroom  quite  ready  and  the 
new  room  in  a  cleaned  out  state,  not  papered  ;  but  really  that  is 
easily  to  be  borne  after  what  has  been  to  bear.  The  door  in  the 
parlour  has  been  left  as  it  was,  partly  because  I  dreaded  to  let  the 
wretches  begin  any  new  mess,  and  partly  because  I  find  the  room 
can  be  made  so  warm  for  winter  by  having  the  door  opened  into  the 
passage,  and  the  folding-door  space  completely  filled  by  the  screen. 
Now  that  I  see  a  probable  end  to  the  carpenters  and  bricklayers,  I 
may  tell  you,  without  putting  you  quite  wild,  that  Mr.  Morgan  has 
been  here  just  twice  since  you  left  home,  and  neither  time  have  I 
seen  him.  The  first  time  I  was  oat  at  '  the  balloon,'  and  the  second 
time  was  yesterday,  when  I  was  on  my  back  in  an  agony,  and 
could  not  have  stood  up  for  anyone.  The  botheration  of  hounding 
on  the  men  of  such  a  careless  master,  and  the  responsibility  of  di- 
recting them,  you  may  partly  figure.  Fanny  is  the  best  comfort  I 
have  had,  so  willing  to  fly  over  the  moon  for  me,  and  always  making 
light  of  her  discomforts.  And  now  I  must  write  a  word  of  con- 
gratulation to  John. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  331 


LETTER  147. 


John  Clerk  (Lord  Eldin  ultimately),  of  the  Scotch  '  Court  of 
Session,'  a  man  of  great  faculty  and  singular,  rather  cynical,  "ways, 
and  much  famed  in  Edinburgh,  was  a  dilettante  in  art  withal,  and 
an  expensive  collector  of  pictures.  After  his  long  delayed  advance- 
ment to  the  bench  his  faculties  began  to  decline,  and  many  stories 
of  his  outbreaks  were  current ;  e.g.,  Vmtor  one  day  (to  Lord  Eldin): 
'  What  a  bit  of  paintiug  you  have  done  there,  my  lord  !  Admira- 
ble! exquisite!  Why  it  reminds  one  of  Titian!'  Eldin:  'Titian 
(Tishon)  ?  Tishon  never  did  the  like  o't.'  Jeffrey's  story  to  us 
(twenty  years  before). 

At  Craigenputtock,  foolish  man-servant  of  ours,  reporting  his 
procedures  on  an  errand  to  Edinburgh:  'Called  for  Mr.  Inglis, 
ma'm,  Messrs.  "Donald  (Doandle)  and  Inglis,  m'm.'  'Told  me 
IngUs  was  not  m,  but  Mr.  Doandle  yes,  who  was  all  the  same  as 
Mr.,  Inglis. ' 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Paste  Bestanie,  Dresden. 

Chelsea:  Sunday,  Sept.  13, 1853. 

As  there  was  alreavly  a  letter  gone  to  you,  dear,  and  as  next  day 
was  Sunday,  when  there  woiild  be  some  human  quiet,  I  did  not 
answer  yesterday  by  return  of  post,  but  went  instead  to  the  city, 
where  I  had  business.  Indeed,  it  was  well  to  get  out  into  space 
yesterday,  for  the  plasterers  were  rushing  about  like  demons, 
finishing  off,  and  clearing  away  their  scaffoldings,  &c.,  and  the 
plumbers  were  once  more  boiling  lead  in  the  kitchen,  to  repair 
some  spout  on  the  roof,  and  a  note  I  had  written  to  Mr.  Morgan,  that 
your  brother  Alick  'never  did  the  likeo','  in  point  of  sarcasm,  had 
produced  an  influx  of  things  perfectly  bewildering.  And  the  two 
carpenters,  who  have  been  too  long  togetlier,  fell  to  quarrelling  so 
loud,  that  I  had  to  send  the  painter  to  express  my  sentiments.  In 
fact,  it  was  a  patent  hell  here  yesterday  for  any  '  lover  of  quiet 
things.'' 

l\\  the  evening  I  had  a  iea-party  to  wind  up  with.  Had  madly 
invited  some  people  to  meet  a  man,  who,  after  all,  couldn't  come, 
but  will  come  next  Tuesday  instead.  The  man  was  Herzen,'''  whom 
you  have  hud  some  correspondence  with.  He  is  in  London  for  a 
short  time,  and  was  very  bent  on  seeing  you;  and  Saffi,  who  is 
much  with  him,  asked  leave  to  bring  him  to  me,  not  as  being  '  all 
the  same  as  Mr.  Doandle,'  but  as  the  Hades  through  which  these 

'  Basil  Montague's  account  of  himself. 
"  Big  Russian  exile  and  propagandist. 


332  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

people  pass  to  you— or  hope  to.  So  I  said  he  might  bring  him  last 
night,  and  asked  Darwin,  and  the  Reichenbachs,  and  Brookfield  to 
meet  him — all  in  this  end  of  a  room.  There  were  six  of  us,  and 
we  spoke  four  languages,  and  it  is  all  to  be  done  over  again  on 
Tuesday.  Herzen  is  not  a  German  as  you  fancied  him,  but  a  Rus- 
sian; and  he  is  rich,  which  is  indicated  by  his  having  given 
Mazzini  two  hundred  pounds  for  his  objects. 

Chapman  has  told  Saffl  to  write  him  three  articles,  one  on  Italian 
religion,  two  more  on  Italian  literature;  and  Salfl  is  very  thankful 
to  you.  The  other  Chapman,  when  I  was  in  his  shop  the  other  day 
to  get  a  note  from  him  to  Griffiths,'  made  me  again  the  offer  of 
'very  advantageous  terms'  for  a  novel  of  my  own;  so  I  have 
something  to  retire  upon '  ^  in  prospect,  not  inferior  to  '  an  old 
washer-woman.' 

But  meanwhile  what  a  pity  it  is  that  you  can't  get  any  good 
sleep;  all  the  rest  would  be  made  smooth  for  you  were  that  one 
condition  granted.  It  is  not  only  German  beds,  however,  that  one 
can't  get  sleep  in.  Three  nights  ago  in  desperation  I  took  a  great 
dose  of  morphia  for  the  same  state  of  things,  and  was  thankful  to 
get  four  hours  of  sometliing  like  forgetfulness  by  that  '  question- 
able' means.  I  am  not  otherwise  ill,  however;  that  one  horrid 
headache  I  told  you  of  has  been  my  only  real  illness  since  you 
left. 

I  had  a  long,  very  nice  letter  from  John  two  days  ago.  His 
marriage  is  not  to  come  off  till  November  or  December.  He  talks 
about  it  with  an  innocent  faith  that  is  quite  touching,  and  already 
seems  to  be  '  seeing  his  way '  more  clearly  than  I  ever  knew  him  to 
do.  Thomas  Erskine,  too,  wrote  to  me  that  'he  loved  me  much,' 
and  wished  he  could  see  what  God  intended  me  for.  I  answered 
his  letter,  begging  him  to  tell  me  '  what  God  intended  me  for,* 
since  he  knew  and  I  didn't.  It  would  be  a  satisfaction  even  to 
know  it.  It  is  surely  a  kind  of  impiety  to  speak  of  God  as  if  He, 
too,  were  'with  the  best  intentions  always  unfortunate.'  Either  I 
am  just  what  God  intended  me  for,  or  God  cannot  '  carry  out '  His 
intentions,  it  would  seem.  And  in  that  case  I,  for  '  one  solitary 
individual,'  can't  worship  Him  the  least  in  the  world. 

I  had  a  visit  the  other  morning  from  Cooper,  the  Chartist; 
come,  not  to  pay  the  five  pounds  he  borrowed,  but  to  '  ask  for 
more  ! '    You  had  desired  him,  he  said,  to  apply  to  you  again,  if  he 

'  Don't  know. 

»  Darwin's  valet :  '  My  father,  he  has  now  retired,  sir,  upon,'  &c. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  333 

•were  again  in  difficulty  !  !  I  told  him  that  I  *  had  none  to  give 
him,'  and  he  took  the  refusal  like  a  man  used  to  it,  quite  'light  and 
airy.' 

Fanny  is  really  a  nice  servant;  a  dash  of  Irish  'rough  and 
ready '  in  her,  but  a  good  cleaner,  and  a  good  cook,  and  a  perfect 
incarnation  of  '  The  Willing  Mind  ! '  Very  tidy  too  in  her  own 
person,  imder  all  circumstances.  An  awful  complication  revealed 
itself  two  or  three  days  after  she  came,  which  she  stood  by  me  under 
with  a  joUiness  that  was  quite  admirable.  When  the  new-painted 
kitchen  was  capable  of  being  slept  in,  she  fell  to  taking  the  bed  in 
pieces  to  give  it  '  a  good  washing.'  Anne,  who  would  never  be  at 
the  trouble  to  look  to  her  bed,  pretended,  wben  she  did  finally  take 
it  down  by  my  express  order,  before  she  went  away,  to  have 
found  'nothing  worth  mentioning;'  'just  four  bugs,'  and  these 
'  very  small  ones,'  like  the  girl's  illegitimate  child.  Well!  I  was 
sitting  writing  here,  when  Fanny  came  and  said,  '  Do  step 
down,  ma'am,  and  see  what  I  have  kept  to  show  you;'  and  when  I 
had  gone  down,  not  knowing  what  she  had  been  at,  there  lay  her 
bed  all  in  pieces,  and  beside  it  a  large  basin  of  water,  containing 
the  drowned  bodies  of  something  like  two  hundred  bugs  !  !  The 
bed  perfectly  swarmed  with  these  '  small  beings  ;'  was  in  fact  im- 
pregnated with  them  beyond  even  my  cleansing  powers.  We 
gathered  it  all  up,  and  carried  it  out  into  the  garden  to  be  sold  to  a 
broker,  who  is  coming  for  certain  rubbish  of  things  ;  and  I  went 
the  same  day  and  bought  a  little  iron  bedstead  for  the  kitchen,  for 
one  pound  two-and-sixpence.  The  horror  of  these  bugs  quite 
maddened  me  for  many  days  ;  and  I  would  not  tell  you  of  them  at 
the  time,  that  you  might  not  feel  them  prospectively  biting  you  ; 
but  now  I  think  we  are  '  quite  shut  '  of  them!'  The  painter's  con- 
solation, that  he  '  knew  fine  houses  in  Belgrave  Square  where  they 
were  crawling  about  the  drawing-room  floors ! '  did  not  help  me 
at  all. 

The  poor  white  cat  no  longer  gives  offence  to  Nero ;  I  suppose 
she  'couldn't  stand  the  muddle,'  hke  that  girl  who  went  away  into 
infinite  space  two  weeks  ago.  Darwin  says,  if  I  can  put  up  with 
'a  cat  with  a  bad  heart,'  I  may  have  his.  'That  minds  me '  (as 
Helen  used  to  say)  of  an  Italian,  living  with  Mazzini  at  present, 
wlio  is  beating  Safii  hollow  in  '  the  pursuit  of  English  under  diffi- 
culties;' sitting  down  by  some  Englishman  the  other  day,  he  said 
'  fluently,'  '  Now  let  we  have  a  nice  cat  together! '  (chat). 

1  Manchester  phrase ;  should  be  '  shot,'  as  in  Annandale. 


334  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

How  disappointed  poor  Bolte  will  be  that  I  am  not  along  with 
you !     I  will  write  to  her  one  day. 

Mr.  Kenj^on  and  Browning  left  their  cards  for  me  yesterday.  I 
heard  at  Addiscombe  that  Macaulay  was  ill  of  some  mortal  disease, 
but  the  information  seemed  vague.  Thiers  is  expected  at  the 
Grange  the  first  of  November,  '  to  stay  till  they  come  to  London, 
and  live  on  at  Bath  House  after.'  And  now,  a  Jew,  a  Jew!  for  I 
have  still  some  writing  to  do  before  I  go  out:  a  letter  to  Geraldine 
in  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  one  to  John.  My  love  to  Neuberg,  and  bid 
him  '  be  strong.' 

Afiectionately  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  148. 
'  To  T.  Carlyle,  Paste  Bestante,  Berlin. 

20  Hemus  Terrace.  Chelsea:  Sept.  25, 1852. 
By  this  time,  dear,  you  will  have  got  my  letter  to  Dresden.  I 
wrote  there  according  to  your  first  instructions.  Since  then  I  have 
been  rather  pleased  that  uncertainty  about  your  whereabout  afford- 
ed me  a  fair  excuse  for  observing  silence.  In  all  my  life  I  was 
never  in  a  state  more  unfavourable  to  letter- writing;  so  '  entangled 
in  the  details,' '  and  so  continually  out  of  temper.  I  have  often 
said  that  I  couldn't  be  at  the  trouble  to  hate  anyone ;  but  now  de- 
cidedly I  hate  one  man — Mr. !    His  conduct  has  been  perfectly 

shameful ;  not  a  promise  kept,  and  not  even  an  apology  made  for 
breaking  them.  I  have  ceased  to  write  to  him,  or  send  any  mes- 
sages to  him.  I  merely  praj^  God  to  '  very  particularly  damn  him. '  '■* 
The  carpenters,  bricklayers,  and  plasterers  are  all  gone  out  of  the 
house;  there  are  still  some  odds  and  ends  for  the  carpenter  to  do, 
and  the  bricklayer  will  be  outside ;  but  the  only  work  doing  for  the 

last  week  has  been  painting.     And  though  Mr. promised  that 

two  more  painters  should  be  sent  to  help  the  one  already  here,  that 
promise  has  gone  ad  plures.  Neither  will  he  send  back  the  paper- 
hangers  to  finish  in  the  staircase.  With  this  one  painter  it  was  im- 
possible to  do  all  that  was  needed  before  your  return.     So  I  have 

'  John's  phrase. 

*  Old  McTurk,  on  paying  his  reaper."?  at  evening  (who  had  taken  to  '  kemp,' 
and  spoiled  him  much  stuff),  said  to  each,  with  the  Ss.  fid.,  '  God  damn  you! ' 

and  to  one  old  woman  (originator  of  the  thing),  '  And  God  particularly 

you,  ye  b ! ' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  335 

bad  to  give  up  the  paiutiug  of  the  lower  rooms — too  thaukful  to 
get  them  tlioroughl}'  cleaned  once  more,  aud  refurnished.  Fanuy 
and  Mrs.  Heywood  were  two  days  washing  the  old  paint,  while  I 
cleaned  the  paper;  and  two  days  more  it  took  us  to  bring  the  fur- 
niture to  its  old  condition.  The  new  room  is  cleaned  out,  and  has 
the  old  furniture  in  it;  and,  though  sufficiently  bare-looking,  will 
not  be  uninhabitable  during  the  winter,  and  when  it  is  papered  and 
furnished  prettily,  it  will  be  a  very  fine  room  indeed.  Chalmers ' 
said,  with  a  look  of  envy,  that  we  couldn't  have  got  a  house  with 
such  a  room  in  it  under  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year. 

The  new  bedroom  upstairs  is  still  representing  the  '  belly  of 
Chaos,'  all  things  thrown  out  of  their  old  places  finding  refuge 
there,  but  my  old  bedroom  will  be  'better  t^ian  I  deserve'"  till  the 
other  is  ready.  The  bed  is  up  there,  without  curtains,  but  the  work 
of  rehabilitation  is  going  on  in  it;  so  that  it  will  be  ready  for  sleep- 
ing in,  when  one  can  safely  sleep  in  the  house  at  all;  which  is  not 
the  C3,se  at  present,  the  new  paint  in  the  staircases  poisoning  the 
whole  house.  And  your  bedroom !  Ah !  that  has  been  the  crudest 
cut  of  all.  I  had  it  painted  the  first  thing,  that  it  might  be  well 
aired  for  you;  and  the  presses  you  wished  for,  wliich  they  would 
not  make  on  the  spot,  but  must  have  made  at  the  workshop,  were 
ordered,  and  promised  to  be  all  painted  there  to  save  us  the  smell ; 
and,  behold!  after  keeping  me  up  with  tliis  delusion  for  six  weeks, 
they  bring  them  home  in  raw  wood — declaring  they  could  not  be 
painted  till  they  were  fixed  up.  And  so  that  room,  where  I  had 
been  sleeping  for  a  week,  had  to  be  again  abandoned.  I  could  not 
try  the  sofa  in  the  parlour  again,  for  tlie  passage  was  all  in  wet 
paint,  and  1  felt  mjself  growing  quite  ill;  got  up  every  morning 
with  a  sick  headache,  and  had  got  back  my  old  sickness  through 
tlie  day,  which  I  had  hoped  was  gone  for  good.  So  there  was  no 
sense  in  staying  on  till  I  took  a  nervous  fever,  or  some  such  thing. 
I  went  off  then  on  a  new  hunt  for  lodgings;  and  found  a  decent 
little  apartment  next  door  to  Mrs.  Thorburu,  wliose  house  was  fuliy 
let.  I  have  the  ground  floor,  and  my  bed  is  quite  free  of  '  small 
beings,'  an  unspeakable  mercy!  Indeed,  it  is  a  very  comfortable 
little  bedroom,  though  feebly  furnished;  and  the  people  very  decent, 
quiet  people.  I  go  home  to  breakfast  every  morning,  and  work 
there  very  hard  till  dinner-time — two  o'clock,  and  for  an  liour  after, 
or  as  long  as  I  can  bear  the  smell;  aud  tlieu  I  come  back  here  to 

'  Rich  man  of  next  door;  and  endless  builder,  renovator,  and  decorator  of 
No.  4.  '  Coleridge. 


336  LETTERS  AND  MEMO-RIALS  OF 

early  tea,  and  spend  the  evening  in  pu-re  air.  Tlie  quantity  of  work 
it  takes  to  restore  order  at  Clieyne  Row,  and  repair  tlie  ruin  of  tliat 
general  upturn,  is  perfectly  incredible.  Three  Sittings,  they  say, 
is  equal  to  a  fire;  but  a  '  thorough  repair'  is  equal  to  three  fires. 

Oh,  dear,  in  case  I  forget  Masson!  Masson  is  quite  frantic  at 
having  received  no  testimonial '  from  you.  The  election  takes 
place  on  the  fifth;  so  pray  try  to  write  to  him  in  time.  I  promised 
to  tell  you  his  ardent  wish  as  soon  as  I  knew  where  to  hit  you  with 
a  letter. 

I  see  hardly  anybody ; — going  nowhere.     Dr.  H has  called 

/our  times  (!)  without  finding  me;  two  of  the  times  I  was  in  the 
house — au  secret.  Darwin  is  into  his  new  house,  and  now  oflE  to 
Shrewsbury  for  a  little  while.  The  Farrars  are  gone  to  Malvern. 
Poor  Mrs.  Macready  is  gone;  died  at  Plymouth  on  the  eighteenth. 
Miss  Macready  wrote  me  a  long,  most  kind  letter,  telling  me  that 
till  her  last  hour  she  '  loved  me  much.'  Her  life  had  become  too 
suffering,  it  is  best  that  it  is  over. 

I  should  like  to  have  seeu  Gothe's  and  Schiller's  house  with  you. 
In  fact  your  travels,  though  you  make  them  out  rather  disagree- 
able than  otherwise,  look  to  me  quite  tempting. 

I  have  given  you  a  good  dose  of  the  house  this  time ;  and,  be- 
sides that,  I  have  really  no  news  wortli  telling.  A.  Sterling  came 
one  day;  returned  from  Scotland,  and  on  the  road  to  Cowes — a 
dreadfully  corpulent  black  Werier.  A  letter  from  John  would  be 
lying  for  you  at  Dresden  with  mine,  so  I  need  not  tell  his  plans. 
I  hope  I  shall  like  this  new  sister-in-law.  He  seems  to  think  I  have 
as  much  share  in  marrying  her  as  himself  has. 

John  Welsh  has  been  made  much  of  at  Belfast,  and  complimented 
in  public  by  Colonel  Sykes.  He  sent  me  a  Belfast  newspaper.  Oh! 
I  had  nearly  forgotten — Lady  Stanley  has  been  in  town,  and  sent  to 
ask  when  she  could  find  me,  or  if  I  would  come  to  her.  Drank  tea 
with  her — went  and  came  in  omnibus,  but  having  Mrs.  Heywood 
with  me  by  way  of  lady's-maid.  And  now,  good-night.  I  am 
very  tired;  and  the  tireder  I  am,  the  less  I  sleep. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carltle. 

>  London  professorship;  I  sent  him  one  from  Berliu. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  337 

LETTER  149. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  British  Hotel,  Unier  den  Linden,  Berlin. 

Chelsea:  Oct.  5,  1853. 
I  write,  dear,  since  you  bid  me  write  again ;  but  upon  my  honour 
it  were  better  to  leave  me  silent;  all  the  thoughts  of  my  heart  just 

now  are  curses  on  Mr.  .     I  have  not  a  word  of  comfort  to  give; 

I  am  wearied  and  sad  and  cross;  feel  as  if  death  had  been  dissolved 
into  a  liquid,  and  I  had  drunk  of  it  till  I  was  full!  Good  gracious! 
that  wet  paint  should  have  the  power  of  poisoning  one's  soul  as 
well  as  one's  body!  But  it  is  not  the  wet  paint  simply;  it  is  the 
provocation  of  having  an  abominable  process  spun  out  so  intermin- 
ably, and  the  prospect  of  your  finding  your  house  hardly  habitable 
after  such  long  absence  and  weary  travel.  Never  in  all  my  life  has 
my  temper  been  so  tried.  So  anxious  I  have  been  to  get  on,  and 
the  workmen  only  sent  here,  seemingly,  when  they  have  nowhere 

else  to  go,  and  Mr.  dwindled  away  into  a  myth!    Not  once 

have  I  seen  his  face !  I  will  have  your  bedroom  at  least  in  order 
for  you,  and  if  the  smell  of  the  staircase  is  too  bad,  you  must  just 
stay  the  shorter  time  here.  Lady  A.  wrote  to  invite  us  to  the  Grange 
on  the  fifteenth,  for  'a  long  visit,'  and  I  have  engaged  to  go — my- 
self for  a  week  or  ten  days;  but  you,  I  said,  could  stay  longer  it 
would  be  the  better  for  you.  We  shall  see  how  it  smells  when  you 
come  and  need  not  make  long  programmes. 

For  myself  I  have  been  sleeping  about  at  home,  again,  have  done 
so  since  Monday.  I  had  to  give  up  my  snug  little  lodging  suddenly 
and  remain  here,  for  'reasons  which  it  may  be  interesting  not  to 
state.'  As  the  painter  (only  one  can  I  get)  paints  me  out  of  one 
floor,  I  move  to  another;  but  I  have  slept  oftenest  in  the  back  par- 
>lour,  on  the  sofa,  which  stands  there  in  permanency,  and  which, 
with  four  chairs  and  a  quantity  of  pillows,  I  have  made  into  an 
excellent  bed.  But  surely  it  were  more  agreeable  to  write  of  some- 
thing else. 

Dr.  H then!    What  Doctor  H means  I  am  at  a  loss  to 

conjecture,  but  that  he  comes  here  oftener  than  natural  is  a  positive 
fact.  After  the  five  ineffectual  visits  he  made  a  sixth,  which  was 
successful.  I  was  at  home,  and  he  stayed  an  hour  and  half! — look, 
ing  so  lovingly  into  my  eyes  that  I  felt  more  puzzled  than  ever.  Is 
it  to  hear  of  Lady  A.  he  comes?  I  thought,  and  started  that  topic, 
but  he  let  it  drop  without  any  appearance  of  particular  interest. 
L— 15 


338  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

'He  is  an  Austrian,'  I  thought  again,  and  all  Austrians  are  bom 
spies,  Reichenbach  said ;  he  may  know  1  am  the  friend  of  Mazzini, 
and  be  wanting  to  find  out  things  of  him ;  so  then  I  brought  in  the 
name  of  Mazzioi,  bat  that  was  also  no  go.  When  he  was  going 
away  he  said,  '  In  a  few  days  I  will  do  myself  the  honour  of  calling 
again ! '  I  did  not  want  him  to  be  taking  up  my  time  in  the  morn- 
ings, so  I  said,  '  It  was  the  merest  chance  finding  me  at  present  in 
the  mornings.'  'At  what  time  then  may  I  hope  to  find  you?'  'In 
the  evenings,  I  said,  '  but  it  is  too  far  for  you  to  come  then.'  '  Oh, 
not  at  all.'  Better  fix  an  evening  I  thought,  and  have  somebody  to 
meet  him.  So  I  asked  him  for  Wednesday,  and  had  Saffi  and 
Reichenbach  here,  and  both  were  charmed  with  him,  as  well  they 
might  be,  for  he  took  such  pains  to  please  us ;  actually  at  my  first 
request  sang  to  us  without  any  accompaniment.  To-day  he  has 
been  here  again  with  his  wife,  a  pretty,  lady-like,  rather  silly  young 

woman,  whom  Lady  A.  has  taken  into  favour.     Mrs.  G called 

yesterday — of  the  same  genus.  The  Captain  '  is  come  to  town  and 
is  on  his  good  behaviour  for  the  moment.  He  says  he  was  keeping 
a  journal  of  his  travels  in  Scotland,  but  when  he  found  no  letter 
from  me  at  Oban,  where  he  had  begged  me  to  write,  he  dropt  his 
journal — 'never  wrote  another  word.' 

I  have  had  no  accounts  from  John  very  lately — entangled  in  the 
details  no  doubt;  indeed,  I  get  almost  no  letters,  not  having  com- 
posure or  time  to  write  any. 

Geraldine  has  been  some  weeks  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  making  love 
to  some  cousin  (a  doctor)  she  has  there,  and  even  she  has  fallen 
mute. 

Last  Sunday  I  thought  I  had  got  a  letter!  Oh,  worth  all  the 
letters  that  this  earth  could  have  given  me!  I  was  tumbling  two 
boxfuls  of  my  papers  into  one  large  box,  when  the  desire  took  me 
to  look  into  my  father's  day-book,  which  I  had  never  opened  since 
it  came  to  me,  wrapt  in  newspaper,  and  sealed,  from  Templand. 
I  removed  the  cover  and  opened  it ;  and  fancy  my  feelings  on  see- 
ing a  large  letter  lying  inside,  addressed  '  Mrs.  Carlyle,'  in  my 
mother's  handwriting,  with  three  unbroken  seals  of  her  ring!  I  sat 
with  it  in  my  hands,  staring  at  it,  with  my  heart  beating  and  my 
head  quite  dizzy.  Here  was  at  last  the  letter  I  had  hoped  would 
be  found  at  Templand  after  her  death — now,  after  so  many  years, 
after  so  much  sorrow !  I  am  sure  I  sat  ten  minutes  before  I  could 
open  it,  and  when  I  did  open  it  I  could  not  see  to  read  anything. 

1  A.  Sterling. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  339 

Alas!  it  was  not  that  wished-for  letter  of  farewell ;  still  it  was  some- 
thing. The  deed  was  there,  making  over  my  property  to  her,  and 
written  inside  the  envelope  were  a  few  words :  '  When  this  comes 
into  your  possession,  my  dearest  child,  do  not  forget  my  sister. 
G.  W.,  Templand,  May  1827.' 

Beside  the  deed  lay  my  letter,  which  accompanied  it,  and  a  long, 
long  letter,  also  mine,  most  sad  to  read,  about  my  marriage,  some 
copies  of  letters  also  in  my  father's  writing,  and  a  black  profile  of 
him.  On  the  whole  I  felt  to  have  found  a  treasure,  though  I  was 
dreadfully  disappointed  too,  and  could  do  nothing  all  the  day  after 
but  cry. 

Wednesday,  Qth. — Last  night  I  took  to  crying  again  at  this  point; 
besides  it  was  more  than  time  to  go  to  bed  (figuratively  speaking) ; 
and  now  I  have  my  all  work  to  attend  to.  Fanny  continues  the 
best-tempered  of  creatures,  and  her  health  keeps  pretty  good  through 
all  the  mess;  so  that  decidedly  one  may  hope  she  will  be  equal  to 
our  needs  in  the  normal  state  of  things. 

Do  you  know  I  think  I  have  found  out,  though  Erskine  has  never 
written  to  tell  me,  '  what  God  intended  me  for ' — a  detective  police- 
man! I  should  have  gone  far  in  that  career  had  it  been  open  to  my 
talent!'  You  may  remember  an  ornament  I  have  been  wearing 
for  some  years  on  my  neck,  or  rather  you  certainly  remember  no- 
thing about  it.  It  was  a  large  topaz  set  richly  in  gold,  forming  a 
clasp  to  a  bit  of  black  velvet  ribbon.  Well  this  disappeared 
while  I  was  at  my  last  lodging,  and  I  was  very  sorry,  as  it 
was  the  first  jewel  I  ever  possessed,  and  was  given  me  by  my 
father.  As  I  had  perfect  faith  in  the  honesty  of  the  simple 
people  of  the  lodgings,  I  would  not  fancy  it  stolen  there,  and 
as  little  was  it  possible  for  me  to  believe  anyone  here  had  stolen 
it;  it  was  gone  anyhow,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  let 
a  thing  I  valued  go,  helplessly  and  hopelessly,  without  one  effort 
to  recover  it,  beyond  searching  thoroughly  the  two  places.  One 
day,  about  a  week  after,  it  came  into  my  head  in  the  King's 
Road,  '  Does  it  not  look  like  a  decay  of  my  faculties  to  so  part  with 
my  clasp?  How  many  things  have  I  not  recovered  by  trying  the 
impossible? '  And  tlien  I  said  to  myself,  '  It  is  not  too  late  for  the 
impossible  even  now;'  and  set  myself  to  'consider' — thus:  I  am 
certain  it  is  not  mislaid,  either  at  the  lodging  or  at  home;  I  have 
searched  too  tlioroughly.  I  am  equally  certain  that  in  neither 
house  would  any  of  the  people  have  stolen  it.     Ergo,  it  must  have 

'  That  is  truth,  too. 


340  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

been  lost  off  my  neck,  or  out  of  my  pocket,  out  of  doors.  Off  my 
neck?  No;  I  had  a  blue  ribbon  on  my  neck  when  it  was  lost. 
Out  of  my  pocket  then?  Now  it  couldn't  have  leapt  out  of  my 
pocket ;  it  must  have  been  pulled  out  with  my  handkerchief,  or  my 
purse.  With  my  handkerchief?  No,  I  never  use  one,  unless  I  am 
crying,  or  have  a  cold  in  my  head ;  and  I  don't  cry  on  the  streets, 
and  have  had  no  colds  this  twelvemonth.  With  my  purse,  then,  it 
must  have  been  pulled  out — ergo  in  some  shop.  I  could  not  be 
pulling  out  my  purse,  except  to  pay  for  something.  Now  what 
shops  was  I. in  last  week?  I  could  easily  count  them:  the  Post 
Office,  AVarne's,  Smith's,  Todd's.  I  asked  at  the  Post  Office,  at 
Smith's— no  result;  at  Todd's— the  same  careless  answer — but  sud- 
denly a  gleam  of  intelligence  came  over  Mrs.  Todd's  face,  and  she 
exclaimed  to  her  girl,  '  That  couldn't  be  gold  surely,  that  thing  the 
children  were  playing  with ! '  And  it  was  my  clasp,  found  by  Mrs. 
Todd  under  a  chair  in  her  shop,  and  taken  for  '  a  thing  of  no  value,' 
and  given  to  her  little  boys  to  play  with ;  and  so  well  had  they 
played  with  it  that  only  the  setting  could  be  found,  and  that  after 
two  days'  search;  the  topaz  had  been  'lost  in  the  Green  Park!' 
But  I  was  so  glad  to  have  the  frame  at  least,  and  am  getting  some 
hair  put  in  it,  instead  of  the  stone.  But  just  fancy  recovering  such 
a  thing  out  of  space  in  London,  after  a  week!  I  wonder  if  my  let- 
ter will  be  over-weight.  Sucli  weather — rain,  rain,  and  the  paint 
— ecco  la  comhinazione !  Kind  regards  to  Neuberg,  who  will  cer- 
tainly go  to  Heaven  without  any  lingering  in  Purgatory. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  150. 
To  Dr.  Carlyle. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  Oct.  18, 1852. 
My  dear  John, — The  last  letter  you  got  from  me  lay  here  two 
days  before  it  got  posted.  I  was  put  in  what  Anthony  Sterling 
calls  '  a  state  of  mind,'  and  forgot  it  in  my  pocket.  It  was  written 
at  Hemus  Terrace,  that  letter,  late  at  night,  and  after  writing  it  I 
went  to  bed,  and  I  awoke  with  a  bad  headache,  and  when  I  got  up 
at  ray  usual  hour  (six  o'clock),  I  reeled  about  like  '  a  drunk '  (as 
Mazziui  would  say).  But  as  no  coffee  or  attentions  were  there,  I 
would  go  home  to  breakfast  as  usual,  and,  after  splashing  my  head 
with  cold  water,  succeeded  in  getting  my  clothes  on.     When  I 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  341 

opened  the  front  door  it  was  a  deluge  of  rain,  and  I  had  only  thin 
silk  shoes,  with  holes  in  them,  and  no  umbrella.  A  beautiful  out- 
look, with  a  sick  headache!  I  rang  the  bell,  and  implored  the 
landlady's  daughter  to  lend  me  a  pair  of  clogs  and  an  umbrella,  and 
these  being  vouchsafed  me,  I  dragged  home,  thinking  resolutely  of 
the  hot  coffee  that  Fanny  would  have  all  ready  for  me,  to  be  taken 
at  the  kitchen  fire,  and  the  kind  sympathy  that  she  would  accom- 
pany it  with.  On  reaching  my  own  door  I  could  hardly  stand,  and 
leant  on  the  rails  till  it  was  opened.  Fanny  did  not  open  it,  but  a 
Mrs.  Heywood,  who  had  been  assisting  in  the  cleaning  for  some 
(Jays — a  decent,  disagreeable  young  woman.  '  Oh,'  she  said,  the 
first  thing,  '  we  are  so  glad  you  are  come!  Fanny  is  in  such  a 
way !  The  house  has  been  broken  into  during  the  night  I  the  po- 
lice are  now  in  the  kitchen ! '  Here  was  a  cure  for  a  sick  headache! 
and  it  did  cure  it.  '  Have  they  taken  much? '  I  asked.  '  Oh,  all 
Fanny's  best  things,  and  a  silver  table-spoon,  and  a  table-cloth  be- 
sides ! '  A  mercy  it  was  no  worse !  In  the  kitchen  stood  two 
police-sergeants,  writing  down  in  a  book  the  stolen  items  from 
Fanny's  dictation;  she,  poor  thing,  looking  deathly.  There  was  no 
coffee,  of  course — no  fire  even — everything  had  gone  to  distrac- 
tion. The  thieves  had  come  in  at  the  larder  window,  which  Mr. 
Morgan  had  kept  without  a  frame  (!)  for  three  weeks;  the  bolts  on 
the  outside  of  the  back-kitchen  door  had  saved  the  whole  house 
from  being  robbed,  for  Fanny  slept  sound  and  never  heard  them. 
They  had  taken  her  nice  new  large  trunk  out  of  the  back  kitchen 
into  the  larder,  broken  off  the  lock,  and  tumbled  all  the  contents 
on  the  floor,  carrying  away  two  shawls,  two  new  dresses,  and  a 
variety  of  articles,  along  with  the  spoon,  which  had  unluckily  been 
left,  after  creaming  the  milk  for  my  tea,  and  a  table-cloth  (good), 
which  had  been  drying  Nero;  they  had  also  drunk  the  milk  for  my 
breakfast,  and  eaten  a  sweet  cake  baked  for  me  by  Mrs.  Piper;  but 
they  had  not  taken  the  half  of  Fanny's  clothes,  which  are  all  excel- 
lent; nor  three  sovereigns,  which  she  had  lying  wrapped  in  a  bit  of 
brown  paper  at  the  bottom  of  her  box;  nor  a  good  many  things  of 
mine  that  were  lying  open  in  a  basket  for  the  laundress,  and  which 
they  had  also  tumbled  on  the  floor;  nor  many  little  things  lying 
about  in  the  back  kitchen,  which  would  have  useful  to  them, 
whence  I  infer  that  they  had  been  frightened  away.  Fanny, 
though  not  conscious  of  having  heard  them,  said  that  about  mid- 
night '  something  awoke  her, '  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  for  her 
handkerchief  which  lay  on  a  table  at  her  bedside,  and  in  so  doing 


342  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

knocked  over  a  brass  candlestick,  which  '  made  a  devil  of  a  row  ' — 
doubtless  that  had  disturbed  them,  or  we  should  have  lost  more. 
As  it  was,  Fanny's  loss  amounted  to  four  sovereigns,  I  computed, 
which,  of  course,  I  gave  her,  though  she  was  not  expecting,  poor 
thing,   to  be   compensated,    and  kept  declaring  she    was    thank- 
ful it  was  her,  and  not  the  mistress,  that  had  lost  most.     There 
were  dirty  prints  of  naked  feet  all  over  the  larder  shelf,  on  which 
they  stepped  from  the  window;  a  piece  of  the  new  shelf  burnt  with 
a  candle  that  had  been  stuck  to  it.     A  mercy  the  fine  new  house 
was  not  set  on  fire!    Policemen,  four  of  them,  kept  coming  in  plain 
clothes,  and  in  uniform,  for  the  next  three  days,  talking  the  most 
confounded  nonsense,  and  then  died  away  reinfecta,  not  a  trace  of 
any  of  the  corpus  delicti  found.     Mr.  Chalmers  had  a  pair  of  heavy 
steps  carried   over  his  wall,  and  applied  to  a  window  of  number 
one  the  same  night,  and  a  pair  of  bad  worsted  stockings  left  in  his 
conservatory ;  the  carrying  away  of  the  steps  proved  there  had  been 
more  than  one  thief,  as  they  were  too  heavy  for  one  to  take  over  a 
high  wall.     The  window  at  number  one  was  got  up  a  little  way, 
but  stuck  there.    Almost  every  night  since  some  house  in  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood  has  been  entered  or  attempted,  and  still  the 
police  go  about  '  with  their  fingers  in  their  mouths.'     Of  course  I 
no  longer  went  out  to  sleep,  but  occupied  the  sofa  below,  where 
the  paint  was  least  noxious.     Fanny  was  thrown  into  such  a  ner- 
vous state  that  I  was  sure  she  would  take  a  nervous  fever  if  she 
were  not  relieved  from  all  sense  of  responsibility,  which  could  only 
be  through  my  own  presence  in  the  house.    So  I  declined  Mr.  Piper's 
offer  to  come  and  sleep  here  instead  of  me.     Besides,  as  they  had 
seen  our  open  condition— ladders  of  all  lengths  lying  in  the  garden, 
and  all  the  windows  to  the  back,  except  the  parlour  ones,  abso- 
lutely without  fastenings  (!) — I  had  considerable  apprehension  that 
they  would  return  in  great  force,   and  Mr.  Piper,  his  wife  con- 
fessed to  me,  '  would  be  useless  against  thieves,  as  he  slept  like  a 
stone.'    I  sleep  lightly  enough  for  such  emergency,  and  if  I  had  to 
wait  several  days  before  the  carpenter  would  return  to  put  on  the 
fastenings,  I  could  at  least  furnish  myself  with  a  pair  of  loaded 
pistols.     Capital   good  ones  lie  at   my  bedside   every  night,  the 
identical  pistols  with  which  old  Walter  of  the  Times  was  to  have 
fought  his  duel,  which  did  not  come  off.     Bars  of  iron  I  got  put  in 
the  larder  window  next  day,  independently  of  Mr.  Morgan.     In  a 
day  or  two  more  these  bothering  ladders  will  be  taken  away,  and 
then,  when  I  go  to  the  Grange  on  Friday,  Mr.  Piper  can  come  for 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  343 

the  consolation  of  Fanny's  imagination,  and  sleep  as  sound  as  he 
likes.  I  took  care  to  let  all  the  workmen,  and  extraneous  people 
about,  know  of  my  loaded  pistols.  The  painter  came  and  examin- 
ed them  one  day  when  I  was  out,  and  said  to  Fanny:  'I  shouldn't 
like  to  be  a  thief  within  twenty  feet  of  your  mistress,  with  one  of 
these  pistols  in  her  hand.  I  shouldn't  give  much  for  my  life;  she 
has  such  a  devil  of  a  straight  eye ! '  The  workmen  have  all  had  to 
suffer  a  good  deal  from  my  'eye,' which  has  often  proved  their 
foot  rules  and  leads  in  error. 

In  writing  to  Isabella  to-night  I  said  nothing  of  all  this,  in  case 
of  frightening  your  mother,  nor  have  I  told  Mr.  Carlyle,  in  case 
he  should  take  it  in  his  head  to  be  uneasy,  which  is  not  likely,  but 
just  possible. 

And  now  good-night,  and  kind  regards  to  the  Ba-ing,i 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carltle. 

»  Note,  p.  328. 


END    OF  VOLUME  L 


LETTEES  AND  MEMOEIALS 


OF 


Jane  ^Yelsh  Carlyle 


PREPAEED  FOR  PUBLICATION 


BY 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


Edited  by 

JAMES     ANTHONY    FROUDE 


TWO    VOLUMES  IN   ONE 

Vol.  II 


NEW  YORK 
HARPER   &   BROTHERS,   FRANKLIN    SQUARE 

1883 


LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS 

OF 

JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE. 


LETTER  151. 


Returning  (middle  of  October,  1853),  'half  dead,' out  of  those 
German  horrors  of  indigestion,  insomnia,  and  continual  chaotic 
wretchedness,  I  fly  upstairs  to  my  poor  Heroic  Helper;  am  met  by 
her  dear  warning,  'Take  care  of  the  paint! '  and  find  that  she  too 
is  still  fighting— has  not  conquered— that  beast  of  a  task,_  under- 
taken voluntarily  for  love  of  one  unworthy.  Alas,  alas!  it  pains 
me  to  the  heart,  as  it  may  well  do,  to  think  of  all  that.  Was  ever 
any  noble,  delicate,  and  tender  woman  plunged  into  such  an  abyss 
of  base  miseries  by  her  own  nobleness  of  heart  and  of  talent,  and 
the  black  stupidities  of  others?  She  was  engaged  out  to  dinner, 
and,  as  it  was  already  night,  constrained  me  to  go  with  her.  Hans 
Place.  Senior,  Frederick  Elliot,  &c.— not  a  charming  thing  in  the 
circumstances. 

We  hereupon  took  refuge  for  a  week  or  ten  days  (it  seems)  at  the 
Grange— nothing  recollected  by  rae  there — and  by  November  were 
at  last  settled  in  our  own  clean  house.  Frederick  had  been  upon 
my  mind  since  1851,  and  much  reading  and  considering  going  on; 
but  even  yet,  after  my  German  investments  of  toil  and  pain,  I  felt 
uncertain,  disinclined,  and  in  the  end  engaged  in  it  merely  on  the 
principle  Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus  (as  the  '  Dies  Irae  '  has  it).  My 
heart  was  not  in  it:  other  such  shoreless  and  bottomless  chaos, 
with  traces  of  a  hero  imprisoned  there,  I  did  never  behold,  nor  will 
anotlier  soon  in  this  world.  Stupiditas  stupiditatum,  omnia  stu- 
piditas. 

Beginning  of  March  1853  I  must  have  been  again  at  the  Grange 
for  about  a  month.  Portuguese  Ambassador  and  other  lofty  insig- 
nificancies  I  can  vaguely  recollect,  but  tlieir  date  not  at  all.  She 
from  some  wise  choice  of  her  own,  wise  and  kind  it  was  sure  to  be, 
had  remained  at  home. — T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Russell,  'i  hornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Friday,  Dec.  31, 1852. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Russell, — Here  is  another  year;  God  help  us  alll    I 
hope  it  finds  you  better  than  when  I  last  heard  of  you  from  my 
friends  at  Auchertool.    I  have  oftcu  been  meaning  to  write  to  you 
•  II.-l 


2  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

without  waiting  for  a  New  Year's  Day;  but  in  all  my  life  I  never 
Lave  been  so  driveu  off  all  letter-writing  as  since  the  repairs  began 
in  this  house.  There  were  four  months  of  that  confusion,  which 
ended  quite  romantically,  in  my  having  to  sleep  with  loaded  pistols 
at  my  bedside!  the  smell  of  paint  makiug  it  as  much  as  my  life  was 
worth  to  sleep  with  closed  windows,  and  the  thieves  having  become 
aware  of  the  state  of  the  premises.  Once  they  got  in  and  stole 
some  six  pounds'  worth  of  things,  before  they  were  frightened  away 
by  a  candlestick  falling  and  making  what  my  Irish  maid  called  'a 
devil  of  a  row; '  it  was  rather  to  be  called  'an  angel  of  a  row,'  as 
it  saved  further  depredation.  Another  time  they  climbed  up  to 
the  drawing-room  windows,  and  found  them  fastened,  for  a  won- 
der! Another  night  I  was  alarmed  by  a  sound  as  of  a  pane  of  glass 
cut,  and  leapt  out  of  bed,  and  struck  a  light,  and  listened,  and 
heard  the  same  sound  repeated,  and  then  a  great  bang,  like  breaking 
in  some  panel.  I  took  one  of  my  loaded  pistols,  and  went  down- 
stairs, and  then  another  bang  which  I  perceived  was  at  the  front 
door.  'What  do  you  want?' I  asked;  'who  are  you?'  'It's  the 
policeman,  if  you  please;  do  you  know  that  your  parlour  windows 
are  both  open? '  It  was  true!  1  had  forgotten  to  close  them,  and 
the  policeman  had  first  tried  the  bell,  which  made  the  shivering 
sound,  the  wire  being  detached  from  the  bell,  and  when  he  found 
he  could  not  ring  it  he  had  beaten  on  the  door  with  his  stick,  the 
knocker  also  being  off  while  it  was  getting  painted.  I  could  not  help 
laughing  at  what  the  man's  feelings  would  have  been  had  he  known 
of  the  cocked  pistol  within  a  few  inches  of  him.  All  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  much  else  more  disagreeable,  and  less  amusing,  quite 

took  away  all  my  spirit  for  writing;  then,  when  Mr.  C returned 

from  Germany,  we  went  to  the  Grange  for  some  weeks;  then  when 
I  came  home,  and  the  workmen  were  actually  out  of  the  house, 
there  was  everything  to  look  for,  and  be  put  in  its  place,  and  really 
things  are  hardly  in  their  places  up  to  this  hour.  Heaven  defend 
me  from  ever  again  having  any  house  I  live  in  'made  habitable! ' 

What  beautiful  weather!  I  was  walking  m  the  garden  by  moon- 
light last  night  withcit  bonnet  or  shawl!  A  difference  from  being 
shut  ap  for  four  months,  as  I  used  to  be  in  the  winter. 

All  is  quiet  in  London  now  that  we  have  got  that  weary  Duke's 
funeral  over;  for  a  while  it  made  our  neighbourhood  perfectly  intol- 
erable. I  never  saw  streets  so  jammed  with  human  beings  in  all 
my  life.  I  saw  the  lying-in-state,  at  the  cost  of  being  crushed  for 
four  hours,  and  it  was  much  like  scenes  I  have  seen  in  the  Lyceum 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  8 

Theatre,  only  not  so  well  got  up  as  Vestris  would  have  had  it.  I 
also  saw  the  procession  from  Bath  House,  and  that  too  displeased 
me;  however,  when  the  funeral  car  happened  to  stop  exactly  oppo- 
site to  the  window  I  was  silting  at  for  some  eight  minutes,  and  I 
saw  Lord  Ashburton,  and  several  others  of  the  Duke's  personal 
friends  standing  on  the  terrace  underneath,  with  their  hats  off, 
looking  on  the  ground  very  sorrowful,  and  remembered  that  the 
last  time  I  had  seen  the  old  Duke  alive  was  in  that  very  room,  I 
could  not  help  feeling  as  if  he  were  pausing  there  to  take  eternal 
leave  of  us  all,  and  fell  to  crying,  and  couldn't  stop  till  it  was  all 
over.  I  send  you  some  pictures  of  the  thing  which  are  quite  accu- 
rate. It  may  amuse  you  to  see  what  you  must  have  read  so  much 
of  in  the  newspapers. 

And  now  will  you  give  Mary  and  Margaret  some  tea  or  some- 
thing, with  my  blessing,  and  dispose  of  the  rest  of  the  sovereign  as 
you  see  fit? 

With  kindest  regards  to  your  husband  and  father,  believe  me 

Ever,  dear  Mrs.  Russell, 
Tours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carltle. 

LETTER  152. 

Sir  James  Stephen  used  to  frequent  us  on  an  evening  now  and 
then — a  volunteer,  and  much  welcome  always.  Son  is  the  now 
notable  James  Fitzjames.  Fat  Boy  is  Senior  the  younger;  had 
been  at  Malvern  wiih  us  for  the  reason  below,  'too  much  'ealth,' 
according  to  the  Gullies. — T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  the  Grange. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  March  31,  1853. 

Several  letters  for  you;  but  nothing  to  tell,  except  that  we  have 
had  a — what  shall  I  say? — second  fright  with  the  cat!  He  or  she 
(whichever  be  its  honour-worthy  sex)  disappeared  this  time  for  a 
whole  day  and  night  together,  and  having  gone  away  over  the  gar- 
den wall,  returned  by  the  front  area.  A  clever  cat  this  one,  evi- 
dently, but  of  an  unsettled  turn  of  mmd.  The  weather  is  beautiful 
now;  the  wind  in  the  east,  I  fancy,  from  the  roughness  of  my  gen- 
eral skin ;  but  the  sun  cannot  be  shining  more  brightly  even  at  the 
Grange. 

Sir  James  Stephen  and  his  inseparable  long  son  left  a  card  yester- 
day.    I  saw  them  from  the  top  of  the  street,  and  slackened  mv 


4  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

steps,  till  they  were  clear  off.  '  The  Fat  Boy '  also  made  an  inef- 
fectual call  one  day,  surely  in  a  moment  of  '  too  much  'elth  ! '  I 
was  in  the  house,  but  'engaged,'  reading  the  last  pages  of  '  Jeanne 
de  Vaudreuil,"  which,  if  Lady  A.  felt  down  to  reading  a  pretty 
religious  book,  you  may  safely  recommend  to  her;  it  is  worth  a 
dozen  '  Preciosas. ' 

When  I  was  paying  a  bill  at  Wain's  on  Monday,  he  asked,  with 
an  attempted  solemnity,  'had  I  heard  the  news?'  'No,  I  had 
heard  nothing;  what  was  it?'  'The  Queen!'  'Well?'  'Prema- 
ture labour.'  'Well!  what  of  that?  '  ' But— accompanied  with 
death ! '  '  The  child  you  mean? '  '  No,  the  Queen !— very  distress- 
ing isn't  it,  ma'am — so  young  a  woman?  Is  there  anything  I  can 
have  the  pleasure  of  sending  you  today?'  I  hardly  believed  the 
thing,  and  by  going  a  little  further  satisfied  myself  it  was  '  a 
false  report.'  But  was  not  that  way  of  looking  at  it,  '  so  young  a 
woman,'  noteworthy?  Mr.  Wain  being  a  model  of  respectable 
shopkeepers.  What  a  difference  since  the  time  of  the  Princess 
Charlotte! 

Tell  Lady  A.  that  I  think  there  is  no  great  harm  in  oranges  in 
the  forenoon ;  the  rubbish  at  dessert  is  what  you  need  to  be  with- 
held from. 

I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  ask  for  a  bouquet  for  me  when 
you  are  coming  away.  Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  153. 

'Moffat  House,'  where  brother  John  was  now  established  with 
his  wife,  is  the  Raehills'  (Hope  Johnstone)  town  house;  a  big,  old- 
fashioned,  red  ashlar  edifice,  stands  gaunt  and  high  in  the  central 
part  of  Moffat;  which  the  Hope  Johnstoncs  now  never  use,  and 
which,  some  time  ago,  brotlier  John  had  rented  as  a  dwelling-place, 
handy  for  Scotsbrig,  &c.,  being  one  of  various  advantages.  'Beat- 
tock  '  (ancient  Roman,  it  is  thought)  is  now  the  railway  station 
about  a  mile  from  Moffat. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Moffat  House:  Friday,  July  8,  1853. 
And  my  letter  must  be  in  the  Post-Office  before  one  o'clock! 
'  Very  absurd! ' '     And  I  have  had  to  go  to  Beattock  in  the  omni- 
bus with  my  cousin  Helen  to  see  her  off  for  Glasgow,  and  am  so 


•  'Very  absurd '  is  a  phrase  of  John's. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  5 

tired !  Don't  wonder  then  if  you  get  a  '  John's  letter ' '  from  me 
also. 

The  most  important  thing  I  have  to  tell  you  is,  that  you  could 
not  know  me  here,  as  I  sit,  from  a  Red-Indian!  That  I  was  kept 
awake  the  first  night  after  my  arrival  by  a — hyaena!  (Yes,  upon 
my  honour;  and  you  complain  of  a  simple  cock!)  And  that  yes- 
terday I  was  as  near  as  possible  to  giving  occasion  for  the  most 
romantic  paragraph,  of  the  '  melancholy  accident '  nature,  that  has 
appeared  in  any  newspaper  for  some  years ! 

But,  first,  of  the  hyaena.  On  my  arrival  I  found  an  immense 
caravan  of  wild  beasts,  pitched  exactly  in  front  of  this  house ;  and 
they  went  on  their  way  during  the  night,  and  the  animal  in  ques- 
tion made  a  devil  of  a  row.  I  thought  it  was  the  lion  roaring;  but 
John  said  '  No,  it  was  only  the  hyaena! '  I  rather  enjoyed  the  odd- 
ness  of  having  fled  into  the  country  for  'quiet,' and  being  kept 
awake  by  wild  beasts ! 

Well,  having  got  no  sleep  the  first  night,  owing  to  these  beasts, 
and  my  faceache,  I  felt  very  bothered  all  Wednesday,  and 
gladly  accepted  John's  offer  to  tell  you  of  my  safe  arrival,  mean- 
ing to  write  mj'self  yesterday.  But  it  was  settled  that  we  should 
go  yesterday  to  see  St.  Mary's  Loch,  and  the  Grey-Mare's  Tail.' 
We  started  at  nine  of  the  morning  in  an  open  carriage,  '  the  Doc- 
tor,' and  Phoebe — a  tall,  red-haired  young  woman,  with  a  hoarse 
voice,  who  is  here  on  a  visit  ('  the  bridesmaid '  she  was) ;  my  cousin 
Helen,  one  little  boy,  and  myself:  the  other  two  boys  preceding 
us  on  horseback.  It  was  the  loveliest  of  days;  and  beautifuller 
scenery  I  never  beheld.  Besides  that,  it  was  full  of  tender  interest 
for  me  as  the  birthplace  of  my  mother.  No  pursuit  of  the  pic- 
turesque had  ever  gone  better  with  me  till  on  the  way  back,  when 
we  stopped  to  take  a  nearer  inspection  of  the  Tail.  The  boys  had 
been  left  fishing  in  the  Loch  of  the  Lows.  John  and  Miss  Hutchi- 
son had  gone  over  the  hills  by  another  road  to  look  at  Loch 
Skene,  and  were  to  meet  us  at  the  Tail;  so  there  were  only  Phoebe, 
Helen,  and  I  as  we  went  up  to  the  Tail  from  underneath. 

We  went  on  together  to  the  customary  point  of  view,  and  then  I 
scrambled  on  by  myself  (that  is,  with  Nero),  from  my  habitual 
tendency  to  go  a  little  further  always  than  the  rest.  Nero  grew 
quite  frightened,  and  pressed  against  my  legs;  and  when  we  came 

'  Too  brief  generally. 

'  Lofty  cataract  in  the  green  wilderness  left  altogether  to  itself— the  most 
impressiTe  I  ever  looked  on.    (See  Sir  Walter  Scott,  &c.) 


6  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

close  in  front  of  the  waterfall,  he  stretched  his  neck  out  at  it  from 
under  my  petticoats,  and  then  barked  furiously.  Just  then,  I  saw 
John  waving  his  hat  to  me  from  the  top  of  tlie  hill;  and,  excited 
by  the  grandeur  of  the  scene,  I  quite  forgot  how  old  I  was,  how 
out  of  the  practice  of  'speeling  rocks;'  and  quite  forgot,  too,  that 
John  had  made  me  lake  the  night  before  a  double  dose  of  morphia, 
which  was  still  in  my  head,  making  it  very  light;  and  I  began  to 
climb  up  the  precipice!  For  a  little  way  I  got  on  well  enough; 
but  when  I  discovered  that  I  was  climbing  up  a  ridge  (!),  that  the 
precipice  was  not  only  behind  but  on  both  sides  of  me,  I  grew,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  remember  of,  frightened,  physically 
frightened;  I  was  not  only  afraid  of  falling  down,  but  of  losing 
my  head  to  the  extent  of  throwing  myself  down.  To  go  back  on 
my  hands  and  knees  as  I  had  come  up  was  impossible;  my  only 
chance  was  to  look  at  the  grass  under  my  face,  and  toil  on  till 
John  should  see  me.  I  tried  to  call  to  him,  but  my  tongue  stuck 
fast  and  dry  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth;  Nero  barking  with  terrjDr, 
and  keeping  close  to  my  head,  still  further  confused  me.  John 
had  meanwhile  been  descending  the  hill;  and,  holding  by  the 
grass,  we  reached  one  another.  He  said,  'Hold  on;  don't  give 
way  to  panic;  I  will  stand  between  you  and  everything  short  of 
death.'  We  had  now  got  off  the  ridge,  on  to  the  slope  of  the  hill; 
but  it  was  so  steep  that,  in  the  panic  I  had  taken,  my  danger  was 
extreme  for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  bed  of  a  torrent, 
visible  up  there,  had  been  for  a  long  time  the  object  of  my  desire; 
I  thought  I  should  stick  faster  there,  than  on  the  grassy  slope  with 
the  precipipice  at  the  bottom  of  it:  but  John  called  to  me  that  '  if 
I  got  among  those  stones  I  should  roll  to  perdition.'  He  M'as  very 
kind,  encouraging  me  all  he  could,  but  no  other  assistance  was 
possible.  In  my  life  I  was  never  so  thankful  as  when  I  found  my- 
self at  the  bottom  of  that  hill  with  a  glass  of  water  to  drink. 
None  of  them  knew  the  horrors  I  had  suffered,  for  I  made  no 
screaming  or  crying;  but  my  face,  they  said,  was  purple  all  over, 
with  a  large  black  spot  under  each  eye.  And  to-day  I  still  retain 
something  of  the  same  complexion,  and  I  am  all  of  a  tremble,  as 
as  if  I  had  been  on  the  rack.' 

It  is  a  lovely  place  this,  and  a  charming  old-fashioned  house, 
with  '  grounds '  at  the  back.  It  is  comfortably  but  plainly  and 
old-fashionedly  furnished,  looks  as  if  it  had  been  stripped  of  all  its 


'  Terrible  to  me  was  the  first  reading  of  this,  with  memory  of  the  horror 
and  peril  of  the  actual  locality. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  1 

ornamental  details,  and  just  the  necessaries  left.  There  is  a  cook, 
housemaid,  and  lady's-maid,  and  everything  goes  on  very  nicely. 
The  three  hoys  are  as  clever,  Avell-behaved  boys  as  I  ever  saw,  and 
seem  excessively  fond  of  'the  Doctor.'  John  is  as  kind  as  kind 
can  be,  and  seems  to  have  an  excellent  gift  of  making  his  guests 
comfortable.  Phoebe's  manner  is  so  different  from  mine,  so  form.al 
and  cold,  that  I  don't  feel  at  case  with  her  yet.  She  looks  to  me 
like  a  woman  who  had  been  all  her  life  made  the  first  person  with 
those  she  lived  beside,  and  to  feel  herself  in  a  false  position  when 
she  doubts  her  superiority  being  recognised.  She  seems  very  con- 
tent with  John,  however,  and  to  suit  him  entirely. 

My  hand  shakes  so,  you  must  excuse  illegibility. 

I  don't  know  yet  when  I  am  to  go  to  Scotsbrig. 
[No  room  to  sign.] 

LETTER  154. 

Mrs.  Braid  is  the  excellent,  much  loving,  and  much  loved  old 
servant  Betty.  Her  husband  Braid,  an  honest  enough  East-Lothian 
man,  is  by  trade  and  employment  a  journeyman  mason  in  Edin- 
burgh, Ills  wife  keeping  a  little  shop  in  Adum  Street  there  by  way 
of  supplement.  They  have  one  child,  'George,'  an  innocent,  good 
lad,  who  has  learned  the  watchmaking  business,  and  promises 
modestly  in  all  ways  to  do  well;  but  had,  about  this  time,  fallen 
into  a  kind  of  languid  illness,  from  which,  growing  ever  worse, 
and  gradually  deepening  into  utter  paralysis,  he  never  could  re- 
cover, but  was  for  eight  or  nine  years  the  one  continual  care  of 
poor  Betty  till  he  died. 

Mrs.  Braid,  Adam  Street,  Edinburgh. 

Moflfat  House,  Moflfat:  July  13, 1853. 
My  dearest  Betty, — I  am  afraid  almost  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
here,  without  being  able  to  say  positively  that  I  am  coming  to  see 
you.  When  I  left  London,  to  see  you  was  one  of  the  chief  pleas- 
ures I  expected  from  my  travels.  I  intended  to  be  in  Scotland 
some  six  weeks  at  least,  and  to  go  to  Haddington  and  Fife.  But 
now  it  seems  likely  I  shall  have  to  return  to  London,  almost  imme- 
diately, without  having  seen  anyone  but  my  husband's  relations  in 
Dumfriesshire.  Mr.  Carlyle  remained  behind  at  Chelsea,  having 
never  recovered  (he  says)  from  the  knocking  about  he  had  last  year 
in  Scotland  and  Germany,  while  the  house  was  repairing.  He  is 
very  melancholy  and  helpless  left  alone  at  the  best  of  times;  and 
uow  I  am  afraid  he  is  going  to  have  a  great  sorrow  in  the  death  of 


8  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

his  old  mother.  She  has  been  in  a  frail  way  for  years  back ;  but 
within  the  last  few  days  her  weakness  has  increased  so  much  that 
Dr.  Carlyle  thinks  it  probable  enough  she  may  not  rally  again,  in 
which  case  I  shall  go  home  at  once,  to  be  some  help  to  Mr.  Carlyle. 
I  am  staying  now  with  Dr.  Carlyle's  wife,  while  he  himself  is  gone 
to  see  his  mother;  and  his  report  to-night  will  decide  me  what  to 
do.  So  in  case  I  do  not  see  you,  dear  Betty — and  I  fear  I  shall 
not  see  you — here  is  a  ribbon,  in  remembrance  of  my  birthday, 
with  a  kiss  and  my  blessing. 

Mr.  Erskine  writes  that  he  saw  you,  and  liked  you  very  much. 
I  am  sure  you  would  like  him  too. 

The  little  view  at  the  top  of  this  sheet  is  where  I  live  in  London. 

Bishop  Terrot  told  me  George  was  poorly  when  he  saw  you  last. 
I  hope  he  is  recovered.  If  I  do  not  write  within  a  week,  address 
to  me,  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  155. 

Her  visit  to  my  mother  I  perfectly  remember,  and  how  my  dear 
old  mother  insisted  to  rise  from  bed  to  be  dressed,  and  go  down- 
stairs to  receive  her  daughter-in-law  out  of  doors,  and  punctually 
did  so.  I  suppose  the  last  time  she  was  in  holiday  clothes  in  this 
world !  It  touched  me  much.  My  Jane  she  had  always  honored 
as  queen  of  us  all.  Never  was  a  more  perfect  politeness  of  heart, 
beautifully  shining  through  its  naive  bits  of  embarrassments  and 
simple  peasant  forms.  A  pious  mother,  if  there  ever  was  one :  pious 
to  God  the  Maker  and  to  all  He  had  made.  Intellect,  humour, 
softest  pity,  love,  and,  before  all,  perfect  veracity  in  thought,  in 
word,  mind,  and  action;  these  were  her  characteristics,  and  had  been 
now  for  above  eighty-three  years,  in  a  humbly  diligent,  beneficent, 
and  often  toilsome  and  suffering  life,  which  right  surely  had  not  been 
in  vain  for  herself  or  others.  The  end  was  now  evidently  nigh, 
nor  could  we  even  wish,  on  those  terms,  much  longer.  Her  state  of 
utter  feebleness  and  totally  ruined  health  last  year  (1852)  had  been 
tragically  plain  to  me  on  leaving  for  Germany.  For  the  first  time 
even  my  presence  could  give  no  pleasure,  her  head  now  so  heavy. 

These  by  my  Jeannie  are  the  last  clear  views  I  had  of  this  nobly 
human  mother.     It  is  pity  any  such  letters  should  be  lost. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Scotsbrig:  July  20, 1858. 
I  daresay  you  have  thought  me  very  neglectful,  dear,  in  not 
writing  yesterday,  to  give  you  news  of  your  mother;  but  there  was 
nothing  comfortable,  or  even  positive,  to  be  said  yesterday;  and  to. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  6 

torture  you  at  a  distance  with  miserable  uncertainties  seemed  a  cruel 
attention.  Through  Saturday  and  Sunday  your  mother  continued 
much  the  same  as  I  found  her  on  my  last  coming.  Too  weak  and 
frail  to  be  out  of  bed,  but  without  pain  or  sickness;  for  the  rest, 
perfectly  clear  in  her  mind,  and  liking  us  to  be  iu  the  room  talking 
to  her.  During  the  Sunday  night  she  became  very  restless,  and 
about  seven  on  Monday  morning  she  fell  into  a  state  which  was 
considered  by  all  here,  the  minister  included,  to  be  the  beginning 
of  the  end.  There  was  no  pain,  no  struggle.  She  lay  without 
sense  or  motion,  cold  and  deathlike,  hardly  breathing  at  all.  The 
minister  prayed  without  her  hearing  him.  John  and  Mary  were 
sent  for,  with  scarce  a  hope  that  they  could  arrive  in  time,  and  all 
of  us  sat  in  solemn  silence  awaiting  the  end.  Had  it  come 
thus,  you  would  have  had  no  cause  to  lament,  dear;  a  more  merci- 
ful termination  there  could  not  have  been  to  a  good  life.  But  after 
lying  in  this  state  from  seven  in  the  morning  till  a  quarter  after 
two  in  the  day,  she  rallied  as  by  miracle.  Jane  was  wiping  her  lips 
with  a  wet  sponge,  when  she  (your  mother)  suddenly  took  the  sponge 
out  of  Jane's  hand  and  sponged  her  face  all  over  with  her  own 
hand;  then  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  spoke  quite  collectedly,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened;  nor  has  she  ever  shown  the  least  conscious- 
ness of  having  come  through  that  fearful  crisis. 

When  John  and  Mary  arrived  together,  at  a  quarter  after  four, 
not  expecting  to  find  her  alive,  they  found  her  a  little  weaker  per- 
haps, but  not  otherwise  worse  than  when  they  left  her.  She  talked 
a  good  deal  to  me  during  the  afternoon;  said  you  had  been  as  good 
a  son  to  her  as  ever  woman  had ;  '  but  indeed  they  had  been  all  good 
bairns;  and  Isabella,  puir  bodie,  was  gaiy '  distressed  hersell,  and  it 
was  just  to  say  that  Isabella  had  been  often  kind  to  her,  extraor- 
dinar  kind,  and  was  ay  kindest  when  they  were  alane  thegither,  and 
she  had  none  else  to  depend  on.'  That  I  can  well  believe;  and  very 
glad  I  was  to  have  those  kind  words  to  carry  to  Jamie  and  Isabella. 
Isabella  had  been  crying  all  morning,  for  since  Jane  came  your 
mother  had  hardly  spoken  to  her.  When  I  left  your  mother  that 
night,  she  said  in  a  clear,  loud  voice,  '  I  thank  ye  most  kindly  for 
all  your  attentions.'  '  Oh,  if  I  could  but  do  you  any  good! '  I  said. 
'  Ye  have  done  me  good,  mony  a  time,'  she  answered.  I  went  to 
bed  to  lie  awake  all  night,  listening  for  noises.  John  slept  in  the 
mid-room.  But  the  light  of  a  new  day  found  your  mother  better, 
rather  than  worse.    It  was  more  the  recollection  of  the  state  in  which 

'  Qaiy,  pretty  much. 
II.— 1* 


10  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

she  bad  been  than  her  actual  state  that  kept  us  in  agitation  all  yester- 
day. One  thing  that  leads  me  to  believe  her  life  will  be  prolonged 
is,  that  she  recovered  out  of  that  crisis  by  the  natural  strength  that 
was  still  in  her;  she  must  have  been  much  stronger  than  anyone 
thought,  to  have  rallied  after  so  many  hours  of  such  deathlike  pros- 
tration, entirely  of  herself. 

She  had  been  in  the  habit  of  getting  what  seems  to  me  perfectly 
extraordinary  quantities  of  wine,  whisky,  and  porter,  exciting  a 
false  strength,  not  to  be  depended  on  for  an  hour.  Of  late  days 
this  system  has  been  discontinued,  and  she  takes  now  only  little 
drops  of  wine  and  water,  two  or  three  times  a  day,  and  about  the 
third  of  a  tumbler  of  Guinness'  porter  at  night.  The  day  that  John 
was  sent  for  last  week,  he  told  me  himself  she  had  '  a  bottle  of 
wiue  (strong  Greek  wine),  a  quarter  of  a  bottle  of  whisky  (25  over 
proof),  besides  a  tumbler  of  porter.'  A  life  kept  up  in  that  way 
was  neither  to  be  depended  on,  nor  I  should  say  to  be  desired. 
Now  she  is  living  on  her  own  strength,  such  as  it  is;  and  you  may 
conceive  what  irritation  is  removed.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  to 
be  considered  lucky  or  unlucky  that  I  came  at  this  time.  Of 
course  I  give  as  little  trouble  as  possible,  and  make  myself  as 
useful  as  possible,  and  I  feel  sure  that  Jamie  and  Isabella  like  me 
to  be  here,  even  under  these  sad  circumstances,  and  that  the  sight 
of  me  coming  and  going  in  her  room  does  your  mother  good  rather 
than  harm ;  and  then  I  shall  be  able  to  answer  all  your  questions 
about  her  when  I  come  back,  better  than  the  others  could  do  by 
letter.  As  for  Mary,  she  is  the  same  kindly  soul  as  I  knew  her  at 
Craigenputtock.  Jamie  was  to  have  driven  me  over  to  the  Gill  on 
Monday,  and  instead  the  empty  gig  was  sent  to  bring  Mary  here. 
She  ran  out  of  the  house  to  meet  me,  and  was  told  her  mother  was 
at  the  point  of  death.  She  is  still  here — but  goes  home  to-morrow, 
I  believe ;  and  John  goes  back  to  Moffat  to-day.  He  will  probabl}'' 
be  down  again  to-morrow.  It  is  a  comfort  to  himself  to  come,  but 
he  can  do  nothing;  no  doctor  can  do  anything  against  old  age, 
which  is  your  mother's  whole  disease. 

I  shall  be  home  one  of  these  days.  Any  little  spirits  for  visiting 
and  travelling  that  I  had  left  are  completely  worn  out  by  what  I 
have  found  here.  I  only  wait  till  things  are  re-established  in  a  state 
in  which  I  can  leave  with  comfort. 

I  have  just  been  to  see  if  your  mother  had  awoke;  she  has  slept 
two  hours.  I  asked  her  if  she  had  any  message  for  you,  and  she 
said,  'None,  I  am  afraid,  that  he  will  like  to  hear,  for  he'll  be 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  11 

sorry  that  I'm  so  frail.'  She  has  had  some  chicken  broth.  I  will 
write  again  to-morrow,  and  I  beseech  you  not  to  be  fancying  her 
ill  off  in  any  way.  She  has  no  pain,  no  anxiety  of  mind,  is  more 
comfortable,  really,  lying  in  bed  there  'so  frail,'  than  we  have  of- 
ten seen  her  going  about  after  her  work.  She  is  attended  to  every 
moment  of  the  day,  gets  everything  she  is  able  to  take.  No  one 
can  predict  as  to  the  length  of  her  life,  after  what  we  saw  on  Mon- 
day ;  but  there  is  nothing  in  her  actual  state  or  appearance  to  make 
it  impossible,  or  even  improbable,  that  she  should  live  a  long  time 
yet.  I  would  much  rather  not  have  written  today,  but  I  judged 
that  my  silence  might  alarm  you  even  more  than  the  truth  told 
you.     I  like  few  things  worse  than  writing  ill  news. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  W.  Caeltle. 

I  had  a  very  kind  letter  from  Jeannie  Chrystal,'  pressing  me  to 
go  there  for  a  week  or  two;  but,  as  I  have  said,  I  am  quite  out  of 
heart.  I  have  had  no  sleep  the  last  two  nights,  and  shall  get  none 
now,  probably,  till  I  am  in  my  own  bed  at  Chelsea.  It  is  quite 
affecting,  James's  devoted  attention  to  me.  If  I  am  but  out  half 
an  hour  for  a  walk,  he  will  follow  me  to  my  bedroom,  no  matter 
how  early  in  the  day,  carrying  (very  awkwardly,  you  may  be  sure) 
a  little  tray  with  a  decanter  of  wine  (not  the  Greek  wine,  but  wine 
bought  for  me  by  himself)  and  a  plateful  of  shortbread.  Nor  can 
anybody  be  more  heartily  and  politely  kind  than  Isabella  has  been 
to  me. 

My  remembrances  to  Fanny. 

LETTER  156. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Scotsbrig:  Thursday,  Jxily  21, 1853. 
It  is  a  pleasure  to  write  to-day,  dear;  your  mother  is  so  well. 
She  went  to  sleep  last  night  about  eight  o'clock,  and  slept  a  fine 
natural  'pluffing'  sleep  till  one  in  the  morning,  when  she  awoke 
and  asked  for  some  porridge,  which  having  taken,  she  went  to 
sleep  again,  and  slept  till  six  in  the  morning.  Then  she  opened 
her  eyes  and  said,  'write  a  line  to  the  doctor'  by  the  train  to  tell 
him  'no  to  come  back  the-day;  for  'atwelP  she  wasna  needing 

>  Cousin  Jeannie,  of  Liverpool,  now  wedded  in  Glasgow. 
'  That  well ;  very  certainly. 


12  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

him.'  Then  off  to  sleep  again  till  half  after  nine.  I  was  sitting  at 
her  bedside  when  she  woke  up  then  quite  fresh,  and  her  first  word 
was,  'Did  they  send  a  bit  line  to  the  doctor  to  bid  hira  no  come?' 
Her  going  ou  hitherto  is  all  confirmatory  of  my  first  impression, 
that  it  could  not  be  for  nothing  that  she  had  come  out  of  that 
death-like  trance  through  her  own  unassisted  strength;  but  that 
she  was  going  to  have  a  new  lease  of  life  with  better  health  than 
before.  I  have  not  seen  her  so  well  as  she  is  to-day  since  I  came 
to  the  country;  and  Jane  says  she  has  not  seen  her  so  well  since 
Candlemas;  and  Mr.  Tait '  told  me  an  hour  ago  he  had  not  seen 
her  so  well  for  eight  weeks.  And  she  has  not  a  drop  of  wine  or 
whisky,  or  any  of  those  horrible  stimulants  to-day,  so  that  one  is 
sure  the  wellness  is  real. 

It  was  put  in  my  power,  'quite  promiscuously,'  to  give  her  a 
little  pleasure  this  morning.  I  '  do  all  the  walking  of  the  family ' 
at  present;  carry  all  the  letters  backwards  and  forwards,  like  a 
regular  post- woman,  of  my  own  free  will  of  course,  for  Jamie 
would  send  to  Middlebie  or  Ecclefechan  at  any  time  for  me ;  but  I 
can  be  best  spared  to  go,  and  I  like  it.  Since  I  came  here,  I  '  have 
been  known '  to  walk  to  Ecclefechan  and  back  again  twice  in  one 
day !  And  most  times  I  get  an  old  man  for  company ;  different  old 
men  attach  themselves  to  me,  like  lovers;  and  I  find  their  innocent 
talk  very  refreshing. 

This  morning  I  went  to  Middlebie  as  usual  on  the  chance  of  a 
letter  from  you,  and  the  post,  as  usual,  not  being  come  (I  always 
go  far  too  soon),  I  walked  on,  as  usual,  and  met  the  postman  half- 
way to  Ecclefechan.  Coming  back,  reading  your  notes,  I  met 
three  or  four  women,  one  of  whom  stopped  me  to  inquire  for  your 
mother.  Then  she  left  her  companions  and  turned  back  with  me, 
telling  me  about  her  mother,  how  ill  she  had  been  last  week,  and 
that  she  would  '  like  weel  to  ken  what  I  thocht  o'  her  looks  com 
pared  wi'  Mrs.  Cairl's.'  ^  And  when  we  arrived  at  a  farmhouse  on 
the  Ecclefechan  side  of  the  mill  she  begged  me,  as  a  great  favour, 
'just  to  step  in  and  take  a  look  o'  her  mother,  and  say  what  I 
thocht.'  I  did  not  refuse,  of  course;  but  went  in,  and  sat  awhile 
beside  a  good  patient-looking  old  woman  in  the  bed,  who  asked 
many  questions  about  your  mother,  and  told  me  much  about  her- 
self. When  I  came  in  and  described  where  I  had  been,  it  turned 
out  I  had  brought  your  mother  the  very  information  she  had  been 
asking  of  all  the  rest  yesterday  with  no  result;  and  she  had  left  off, 

>  The  clergyman.  ^  Low  Annandale  for  '  Carlyle's.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  13 

saying,  '  naebody  cared  for  auld-folks  nowadays,  or  some  o'  them 
would  hae  gaen  an'  asket  for  puir  Mrs.  Corrie.'  And  there  had  I 
come  home  with  the  most  particular  intelligence  of  Mrs.  Corrie. 

I  must  write  to  Thomas  Erskine  to-day;  and  to  Liverpool  to  tell 
them  they  may  look  for  me  any  day.  With  John  hovering  about 
'  not  like  one  crow,  but  a  whole  flight  of  crows,'  and  Jane  rubbing 
everything  up  the  wrong  way  of  the  hair,  my  position  is  not  so 
tenable  as  it  would  have  been  alone  with  your  mother  and  Jamie 
and  Isabella.  But  I  could  not  have  gone  with  comfort  to  myself, 
while  your  mother  was  in  so  critical  a  state.  I  shall  probably  go 
to  Liverpool  to-morrow  or  next  day;  at  all  events,  you  had  best 
write  there. 

I  am  decidedly  of  opinion  that  one  should  make  oneself  inde- 
peudent  of  Rocna '  and  all  contingencies  by  building  the  '  sound- 
proof '  room,  since  so  much  money  has  already  been  spent  on  that 
house. 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  C. 


LETTER  157. 

A  letter,  perhaps  two  letters,  seem  to  be  lost  here,  which  con- 
tained painful  and  yet  beautiful  and  honestly  pathetic  details  of 
her  quitting  Scotsbrig  before  tlie  time  looked  for,  and  on  grounds 
which  had  not  appeared  to  her,  nor  to  anybody  except  my  brother 
John,  to  be  really  necessary  in  such  a  fashion.  It  is  certain  all  the 
rest  at  Scotsbrig  (Jamie  and  Isabella  especially,  her  hosts  there) 
were  vexed  to  the  heart,  as  she  could  herself  notice ;  and  her  own 
feeling  of  the  matter  was  sorrowful  and  painful,  and  coutiuued  so 
in  a  degree,  ever  after,  when  it  rose  to  memory.  My  dear  little 
heavy-laden,  tender-hearted,  'worn  and  weary,'  fellow  pilgrim,  feet 
bleeding  by  the  way  over  the  thorns  of  this  bewildered  earth.  Of 
this  weeping  all  the  way  to  Carlisle,  on  quitting  one's  fatherland,  I 

'  Ronca,  inhabitant  of  the  then  dilapidated  No.  6  n«xt  door,  who  nearly 
killed  us  with  poultry  and  other  noises  1  The  '  sound-proof  room '  was  a  flat- 
tering delusion  of  an  ingenious  needy  builder,  for  whicli  we  afterwards  paid 
dear.  Being  now  fairlj-  in  for  '  Frederick,'  and  the  poultry,  parrots,  Cochin 
China,  and  vermin  like  to  drive  one  mad,  I  at  last  gave  in  to  the  seducer,  set 
him  to  work  on  the  top  of  the  house  story  as  floor,  and  got  a  room,  large,  well 
ventilated,  but  by  far  the  noisiest  in  the  house,  and  in  point  of  bad  building:, 
scamping,  and  enormity  of  new  expense  and  of  unexpected  bad  behaviour  in 
hand  and  heart  by  his  man  and  him,  a  kind  of  infernal  '  miracle  '  to  me  then 
and  ever  since;  my  first  view  of  the  Satan's  invisible  world  that  prevails  In 
that  department  as  in  others. 


14  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

surely  remember  another  letter  to  have  said  (in  the  words  of  a  fool- 
ish song  then  current) — 

And  I  left  my  youth  behind 
For  somebody  else  to  find, 

which  gave  the  last  sad  touch  to  the  picture.  In  one  of  her  letters 
to  me  it  indubitably  was.  '  Sophy,'  an  orphan  half-cousin,  to  whom 
and  to  her  mother  Uncle  John's  munificence  had  been  fatherly  and 
princely,  was  now,  and  still  continues,  Alick  Welsh's  good  and 
amiable  wife. 

T.  C. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Liverpool:  Monday,  July  25, 1853. 

Sophy's  letter  yesterday  would  be  better  than  nothing,  would  at 
least  satisfy  you  I  had  come  to  hand,  though  in  assez  mauvais  etat. 
I  got  your  last  letter,  addressed  to  Scotsbrig,  at  Middlebie  on  my 
way  to  the  station;  and  it  cheered  me  up  a  little  for  'taking  the 
road.'  God  knows  I  needed  some  cheering.  In  spite  of  your  letter 
I  cried  all  the  way  to  Carlisle  pretty  well;  I  felt  to  love  my  poor 
old  country  so  much  in  leaving  it  that  morning,  privately  minded 
never  to  return.  After  an  hour-and-half  of  waiting  at  Carlisle  I 
was  whirled  to  Liverpool  so  fast,  oh  so  fast !  My  brains  somehow 
couldn't  subside  after.  The  warmest  welcome  awaited  me  at  Mary- 
land Street.  My  uncle  looked  especially  pleased;  Nero  ran  up  to 
him  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  as  if  to  tell  we  were  come;  and 
when  I  went  in,  it  was  standing  at  his  knees,  my  uncle's  hand  on 
his  head,  as  if  receiving  his  blessing. 

But  the  front  door  and  windows  were  being  painted  at  Maryland 
Street;  and  they  were  afraid  of  the  smell  annoying  me,  and  had 
settled  I  was  to  sleep  at  Alick's.  Alick  and  Sopliy  were  there  to 
take  me  home  with  them.  I  was  better  pleased  to  sleep  here;  it  is 
a  much  larger,  better-aired  house.  A  more  comfortable,  quieter 
bedroom  never  was  slept  in;  but  I  couldn't  close  my  eyes;  took  two 
morphia  pills  at  three  in  the  morning,  and  they  produced  that  hor- 
rible sickness  which  morphia  produces  in  some  people. 

All  yesterday  I  was  in  bed  alternating  between  retching  and 
fainting.  Sophy  '  came  out  very  strong  '  as  a  nurse,  and  even  as  a 
doctor;  reminding  me  so  much  of  her  mother.  I  wish  you  would 
write  two  lines  of  answer  to  her  note;  she  was  really  uncommonly 
kind  to  me.  To-day  I  am  recovered,  having  slept  pretty  well  last 
night,  only  '  too  weak  for  anytliing.'  I  shall  probably  be  home  on 
Thursday,  hardly  sooner  I  think;  but  I  will  write  again  before  I 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  15 

come.  I  told  Sophy  to  tell  you  that  your  mother  had  slept  twelve 
hours  the  night  before  I  came  away.  She  does  not  read  herself  at 
present,  but  Jane  was  reading  the  books  you  sent  aloud  to  her. 
And  Margaret  Austin  read  aloud  some  of  Chalmers's  letters. 

As  Jamie  and  I  were  driving  to  the  station  on  Saturday,  we  met 
Jessie  Austin  going  to  Scotsbrig  to  stay  a  little  while  in  room  of 
Margaret,  who  had  gone  home  when  Jean  came. 

I  thought  Jessie  a  remarkably  nice-looking  young  woman,  sweet- 
tempefed,  intelligent,  and  affectionate-looking,  and  well-bred  withal. 
I  only  spoke  with  her  five  minutes  in  passing,  but  she  made  the 
most  decided  impression  on  me. 

'No  more  at  present.' 

Affectionately  yours 

J.  W.  C. 

Your  letter  to  Maryland  Street  was  brought  up  in  the  morning; 
but  I  could  not  read  it  till  after  noon.    Thanks  for  never  neglecting. 

[Contains  inclosure  from  Kate  Sterling  (dated  '  Petersburg '  1) ;  do. 
from  sister  Mary,  last  part  of  letter  is  written  on  that.] 


LETTER  158. 

'Uncle  John,'  at  Liverpool,  died  shortly  after  Mrs.  Carlyle  re- 
turned to  London.  '  Helen,'  to  whom  this  letter  is  written,  died  a 
few  weeks  after. 

To  Miss  Helen  Welsh,  Auchtertool  Manse. 

Chelsea:  Wednesday,  Oct.  12,  1853. 
Dearest  Helen, — I  know  not  what  I  am  going  to  say.  I  am  quite 
stupefied.  I  had  somehow  never  taken  alarm  at  my  uncle's  last  ill- 
ness. I  had  fixed  my  apprehensions  on  the  journey  home,  and  was 
kept  from  present  anxiety  by  that  far  off  one.  My  beloved  uncle, 
all  that  remained  to  me  of  my  mother.  A  braver,  more  upright, 
more  generous-liearted  man  never  lived.  When  I  took  leave  of  him 
in  Liverpool,  and  he  said  '  God  bless  you,  dear '  (he  had  never 
called  me  dear  before),  I  felt  it  was  the  last  time  we  should  be  to- 
gether, felt  that  distinctly  for  a  few  hours;  and  then  the  impression 
■wore  off,  and  I  thought  I  would  go  back  soon,  would  go  by  the 
cheapest  train  (God  help  me),  since  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  see  me. 
That  we  have  him  no  longer  is  all  the  grief!  It  was  well  he  should 
die  thus,  gently  and  beautifully,  witli  all  his  loving  kindness  fresh 


16  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

as  a  young  man's;  bis  enjoyment  of  life  not  wearied  out;  all  our 
love  for  him  as  warm  as  ever;  and  well  he  should  die  in  his  own 
dear  Scotland,  amid  quiet  kindly  things.  We  cannot,  ought  not  to 
wish  it  had  been  otherwise,  to  wish  he  had  lived  on  till  his  loss 
should  have  been  less  felt. 

But  what  a  change  for  you  all,  and  for  me  too,  little  as  I  saw  of 
him.  To  know  that  kind,  good  uncle  was  in  the  world  for  me,  to 
care  about  me,  however  long  absent,  as  nobody  but  one  of  one's 
own  blood  can,  was  a  sweetness  in  my  lonely  life,  which  can  be  ill- 
spared. 

Poor  dear  little  Maggie,  I  know  how  she  will  grieve  about  these 
two  days,  and  tliink  of  them  more  than  of  all  the  years  of  patient, 
loving  nursing,  which  Should  be  now  her  best  comfort.  Kiss  her 
for  me.  God  support  you  all.  Write  to  me  when  you  can  what 
you  are  going  to  do.  Alas!  that  I  should  be  so  far  away  from  your 
councils.  I  need  to  know  precisely  about  your  future  in  an  eco- 
nomical sense;  through  all  the  dull  grief  that  is  weighing  on  me, 
comes  a  sharp  anxiety  lest  you  should  be  less  independent  than 
heretofore;  to  be  relieved  of  that  will  be  the  best  comfort  you  could 
give  me  at  present.  I  never  knew  what  money  you  had  to  live  on, 
nor  thought  about  it;  now,  it  is  the  first  question  I  ask.  I  am 
dreary  and  stupid,  and  can  write  no  mqre  just  now. 

Tour  affectionate 

J.  C. 

When  I  saw  your  handwriting  again  last  night,  my  only  thought 
was  'how  good  of  her  to  write  another  letter  soon.'  I  was  long 
before  I  could  understand  it. 


LETTER  159. 

After  her  return,  '  Friedrich  '  still  going  on  in  continual  painful 
underground  condition,  the  '  sound-proof  operation  was  set  about, 
poor  Charley  zealously  but  meffectually  presiding;  Irish  labourers 
fetching  and  carrying,  tearing  and  rendiug,  our  house  once  more  a 
mere  dust-cloud,  and  chaos  come  again.  One  Irish  artist,  I  re- 
member, had  been  ignorant  that  lath  and  plaster  was  not  a  floor; 
he,  from  above,  accordingly  came  plunging  down  into  my  bedroom, 
catching  himself  by  the  arm-pits,  fast  swinging,  astonished  in  the 
vortex  of  old  laths,  lime,  and  dust,!  Perhaps  it  was  with  him  that 
Irish  Fanny,  some  time  after,  ran  away  into  matrimony  of  a  kind. 
Run  or  walk  away  she  did,  in  the  coarse  of  these  dismal  tumults,  she 
too  having  gradually  forgottoii  old  things ;  and  was  never  more  heard 
of  here.     We  decided  for  Addiscombe,  beautifullest  cottage  in  the 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  It 

world;  the  noble  owners  glad  we  would  occupy  a  room  or  two  of 
it  in  their  absence.  I  liked  it  much,  and  kept  busy  reading,  writ- 
ing, riding;  she  not  so  mucli,  having  none  of  these  resources,  no 
society  at  all,  and  except  to  put  me  right,  no  interest  at  all.  I  re- 
member her  coining  and  going;  nay,  i  myself  came  and  went.  Off 
and  on  we  stayed  there  for  several  weeks  till  the  hurly-burly  here 
was  over  or  become  tolerable.  Miserable  hurly-burly;  the  result  of 
it,  zero,  and  '  Satan's  Invisible  World  Displayed  '  (in  the  building 
trade,  as  never  dreamt  of  before !). 

For  the  Christmas  month,  we  were  at  the  Grange,  company  bril- 
liant, &c. ,  &c. ;  but  sad  both  of  us,  I  by  the  evident  sinking  of  my 
mother  (though  the  accounts  affected  always  to  show  the  hopeful 
side);  she,  among  other  griefs,  by  the  eminently  practical  one  of 
Ronca's  'Demon  Fowls,'  as  we  now  named  them,  and  the  totally 
futile  issue  of  that  '  sound-proof  room.'  'My  dear,'  said  she,  one 
day  to  me,  '  let  us  do  as  you  have  sometimes  been  saying,  fairly 
rent  that  Ronca's  house,  turn  Ronca  with  his  vermin  out  of  it,  and 
let  it  stand  empty — empty  and  noiseless.  What  is  4:01.  or  451.  a 
year,  to  saving  one's  life  and  sanity?  Neighbour  Chalmers  will 
help  me;  the  owner  people  are  willing;  say  you  "yes,"  and  I  will 
go  at  once  and  have  the  whole  bedlam  swept  away  against  your  re- 
turn!'  I  looked  at  her  with  admiration ;  with  grateful  assent, '  Yes, 
if  you  can '  (which  I  could  only  half  believe).  She  is  off  accord- 
ingly, my  saving  companion  (Ijeautiful  Dea  ex  macJdnd),  and  on  the 
day  following,  writes  to  me  [T.  C.]: — 


To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Orange. 

Chelsea:  Monday,  Dec.  19,  i853. 
I  cannot  write  till  to-morrow,  but  just  a  line  that  you  maj"  not 
be  fancying  horrors  about  me.  I  did  get  home,  and  did  do  what 
was  to  be  done,  but  now  I  must  go  to  bed.  It  is  nothing  whatever 
but  a  nervous  headache,  which  was  sure  to  have  come  after  so 
many  nights  without  sleep,  and  perhaps  it  was  as  easy  to  transact 
it  on  the  railway  as  in  a  bed  in  a  strange  house.  I  shall  be  better 
to-morrow,  and  will  then  tell  you  how  the  business  proceeds. 

Greetings  to  Lady  B .' 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  160. 

No.  6  Cheyne  Row  was,  if  I  recollect,  the  joint  property  of  two 
brothers,  '  Martin  '  their  name,  one  of  whom  had  fallen  imbecile, 
and  could,  or  at  least  did  give  no  authority  for  outlay  on  the  house, 
which  had  in  consecfuence  fallen  quite  into  disrepair,  and  been  let 

•  Dowager  Lady  Bath,  perhaps. 


18  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

to  this  Ronca  with  his  washing  tubs,  poultries,  and  mechanic  sons- 
in-law,  and  become  intolerable  as  a  neighbnurliood.  Poor  Ronca 
was  not  a  bad  man,  though  a  misguided  ('  Irish  Fanny,'  a  Catholie 
like  the  rest  of  them,  was  thought  to  have  done  mischief  in  the 
matter);  but  clear  it  was,  at  any  rate  that  on  him  (alone  of  all  Lon- 
don specimens),  soft  treatment,  never  so  skilful,  so  graceful,  or 
gentle,  could  produce  no  effect  whatever.  But  now  wise  appliance 
of  the  hard,  soon  brought  him  to  new  insight;  and  he  had  to 
knuckle  and  comply  in  all  points.  In  a  few  days,  my  guardian 
genius  saw  herself  completely  victorious;  the  Ronca  annoyances, 
Ronca  himself  in  three  months,  &c.,  &c.  Neighbour  Chalmers, 
great  in  parochialities,  did  his  best.  The  very  house-agent  was 
touched  to  the  heart  by  such  words  (one  Owlton,  whom  I  never 
saw,  but  have  ever  since  thanked),  and  this  tragic  canaillerie  too 
had  an  end.  As  all  here  has — all — but  not  the  meaning  and  first  of 
all!  Thou  blessed  one,  no.  Farther  letters  on  this  tragic  contempti- 
bility  I  find  none;  indeed,  perhaps  hardly  any  came  till  my  own 
sad  re-appearance  in  Chelsea,  as  will  be  seen. — T.  C. 


To  Mrs.  Russell,  Tho7'n7iill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday  night,  Dec.  31, 1853. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Russell, — Ever  since  I  received  your  note  by  Mrs. 
Pringle,  I  have  been  meaning  to  write  to  you,  yet  always  waited 
for  a  more  cheerful  season,  and  now  here  is  New  Year's  day  at 
hand,  and  my  regular  letter  due,  and  the  season  is  not  more  cheer- 
ful; and  besides  I  am  full  of  business,  owing  to  the  sudden  move- 
ments of  the  last  two  weeks,  and  Mr.  C 's  absence,  leaving  me 

his  affairs  to  look  after,  as  well  as  my  own.  We  went  to  the  Grange, 
(Lord  Ashburton's)  in  the  beginning  of  December  to  stay  till  after 
Christmas.  I  was  very  glad  to  get  into  the  country  for  a  while, 
and  had  nothing  to  do  but  dress  dolls  for  a  Christmas-tree  For 
the  last  months  had  quite  worn  me  out;  I  had  had  nothing  but 

building  and  painting  for  so  long,  varied  with  ]\Ir.  C 's  outbursts 

against  the  '  infernal  cocks  '  next  door,  which  made  our  last  addition 
of  a  '  silent  apartment'  necessary.  Alas!  and  the  silent  apartment 
had  turned  out  the  noisiest  apartment  in  the  house,  and  the  cocks 

still  crowed,  and  the    macaw  still  shrieked,  and  Mr.  C still 

stormed.  At  the  Grange  I  should  at  least  escape  all  that  for 
the  time  being,  I  thought.  The  first  two  days  I  felt  in  Paradise, 
and  so  well;  the  third  day  I  smashed  my  head  against  a  marble 
slab,  raised  a  bump  the  size  of  a  hen's  egg  on  it,  and  gave  a  shock 
to  my  nerves  that  quite  unfitted  me  for  company.  But  I  struggled 
on  amidst  the  eighteen  other  visitors,  better  or  worse,  till  at  the  end 
of  a  fortnight  I  was  recovered,  except  for  a  slight  lump  still  visible, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  Id 

when  Mr.  C came  to  me  one  morning,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  told 

me  I  must  go  up  to  London  myself,  and  take  charge  of  some  busi- 
ness— nothing  less  than  trying  to  take  the  adjoining  house  ourselves, 
on  the  chance  of  letting  it,  and  get  our  disobliging  neighbours 
turned  out;  and,  there  being  but  six  days  till  Christmas  (the  time 
for  giving  them  notice  to  quit),  of  course  despatch  was  required, 
especially  as  the  owner  of  the  house  lived  away  in  Devonshire.  1 
thought  it  a  most  wild-goose  enterprise  I  was  sent  on,  and  when 
Lady  Ashburton,  and  the  others  asked  him  why  he  sent  poor  me 
instead  of  going  himself,  and  when  he  coolly  answered,  '  Oh  I 
should  only  spoil  the  thing,  she  is  sure  to  manage  it ;'  it  provoked  me 
the  more,  I  was  so  sure  I  could  not  manage  it.  But  he  was  quite 
right — before  the  week  was  out  I  had  done  better  than  take  a  house 
we  did  not  need,  for  I  had  got  the  people  bound  down  legally 
'  under  a  penaltj'  of  ten  pounds,  and  of  immediate  notice  to  quit, 
never  to  keep,  or  allow  to  be  kept,  fowls,  or  macaw,  or  other  nui- 
sance on  their  premises,'  in  consideration  of  five  pounds  given  to 
them  by  Mr.  Carlyle.  I  had  the  lease  of  the  house,  and  the  notice 
to  quit  lying  at  my  disposal;  but  the  threat  having  served  the  end, 
I  had  no  wish  to  turn  the  people  out.     You  may  fancy  what  I  had 

suffered,  through  the  effects  of  these  nuisances  on  Mr.  C ,  when 

I  tell  you  that,  on  having  this  agreement  put  in  ray  hand  by  their 
house-agent,  I  burst  into  tears,  and  should  have  kissed  the  man,  if 
he  had  not  been  so  ugly.  Independently  of  the  success  of  my  diplo- 
macy about  the  cocks,  I  was  very  thankful  I  happened  to  be  sent 
home  just  then,  otherwise  I  should  have  got  the  news  of  my  cousin 
Helen's  death  in  a  houseful  of  company.  It  was  shock  enough  to 
get  it  here.  I  had  received  a  long  letter  from  herself  a  day  or  two 
before  leaving  the  Grange,  in  which  she  told  me  she  was  unusually 
well;  and  the  night  after  my  return  1  had  sat  till  after  midnight 
answering  it.  Two  hours  after  it  had  gone  to  the  post-office  came 
Mary's  letter  announcing  her  death.      And  the  same    day  came 

Mr.   C ,    who  had   suddenly   taken   the    resolution    to  go  to 

Scotsbrig,  and  see  his  mother  once  more,  John's  letter  indicating 
that  she  was  dying  fast.  I  hurried  him  off  all  I  could,  for  1  was 
terrified  he  would  arrive  to  find  her  dead,  and  he  was  just  in  time. 
He  writes  he  will  probably  be  home  to-morrow  night.     It  has  been 

a  continuous  miracle  for  me,  Mrs.  C 's  living  till  now,  after  the 

state  I  saw  her  in  last  July.  But  poor  Helen  Welsh!  One  has  to 
think  hard,  that  she  had  a  deadly  disease  with  much  suffering  be- 
fore her,  painful  operations  before  her,  had  she  lived,  to  reconcile 
oneself  to  losing  her  so  suddenly. 


20  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

Tell  me,  when  you  write,  if  poor  Mary  got  her  comforter.  Mrs. 
Aitken  forgot  it  for  a  long  time ;  but  on  my  telling  her  you  had  not 
received  it,  she  sent  it,  she  said,  at  once.  I  send  the  money  order 
for  the  usual  purposes — Mary,  Margaret,  who  else  you  like. 

I  hope  Dr.  Russell  is  quite  strong  now.  Kind  regards  to  him 
and  your  father.  Tell  Mrs.  Pringle,'  when  you  see  her,  that  I  re- 
gretted being  from  home  when  she  called,  and  that  I  really  think 
my  own  full  second  cousin  might  have  come  to  see  me  without  a 
recommendation,  and  at  first,  instead  of  at  last.  As  she  left  word 
she  was  going  next  door,  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  or  done. 

If  you  should  not  receive  the  usual  donation  from  my  cousins  for 
old  Mary,  be  sure  to  tell  me ;  she  must  not  be  worse  off  at  this  ad- 
vanced age.  But  I  daresay  Maggie  will  be  very  desirous  to  con- 
tinue her  father's  good  deeds.  Poor  little  Maggie,  I  am  like  to  cry 
whenever  I  think  of  her,  kind,  patient,  active,  little  nurse,  and 
now  transplanted  to  another  country,  her  occupation  gone. 

Your  affectionate 
*  J.  W.  Carlyle. 

I  send  for  New  Year's  luck  a  book,  which  I  hope  you  have  not 
read  already. 

LETTER  161. 

From  the  Grange  I  must  have  followed  in  three  days.  The 
Scotsbrig  letters  on  my  mother's  situation  were  becoming  more 
and  more  questionable,  indistinct  too  (for  they  tried  to  flatter  me); 
evident  it  was  the  end  must  be  drawing  nigh,  and  it  would  be  better 
for  me  to  go  at  once.  Mournful  leave  given  me  by  the  Lady  Ash- 
burton;  mournful  encouragement  to  be  speedy,  not  dilatory.  After 
not  many  hours  here  I  was  on  the  road.  Friday  morning,  Decem- 
ber 23,  1853,  got  to  the  Kirtlebridge  Station:  a  grey  dreary  element, 
cold,  dim,  and  sorrowful  to  eye  and  lo  soul.  Earth  spotted  with 
frozen  snow  on  the  thaw  as  I  walked  solitary  the  two  miles  lo 
Scotsbrig;  my  own  thought  and  question,  will  the  departing  still 
be  there?  Vivid  are  my  recollections  there;  painful  still  and 
mournful  exceedingly;  but  I  need  not  record  them.  My  poor  old 
mother  still  knew  me  (or  at  times  only  half  knew  me);  had  no  dis- 
ease, but  much  misery ;  was  sunk  in  weakness,  weariness,  and  pain. 
She  resembled  her  old  self,  thought  I,  as  the  last  departing  moon- 
sickle  does  the  moon  itself,  about  to  vanish  in  the  dark  waters. 
Sad,  infinitely  sad,  if  also  sublime.  Sister  Jean  was  there.  Mary 
and  she  had  faithfully  alternated  there  for  long  months.  It  was 
now,  as  we  all  saw,  ending;  and  Jean's  look  uuforgetably  sad  and 
grand.     Saturday  night  breath  was  nearly  impossible;  teaspoons  of 

1  A  cousin  of  the  Welsh  family— one  of  the  Hunters. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  31. 

weak  whisky  punch  alone  giving  some  relief.  Intellect  intrinsic- 
ally still  clear  as  the  sun,  or  as  the  stars,  though  pain  occasionally 
overclouded  it.  About  10  p.m.  she  evidently  did  not  know  me  till 
I  explained.  At  midnight  were  her  last  words  to  me,  tone  almost 
kinder  than  usual,  and,  as  if  to  make  amends,  '  Good  night,  and 
thank  ye!'  John  had  given  her  some  drops  of  laudanum.  In 
about  an  hour  after  she  fell  asleep,  and  spoke  or  awoke  no  more. 
All  Sunday  she  lay  sleeping,  strongly  breathing,  face  grand  and 
statue  like;  about  4  p.m.  the  breath,  without  a  struggle,  scarcely 
with  abatement  for  some  seconds,  fled  away  whence  it  had  come. 
Sunday,  Christmas  Day,  1853.     My  age  58;  hers  83. 

T.  Garlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea:  Tuesday,  Dec.  27, 1858. 

Oh,  my  dear!  never  does  one  feel  oneself  so  utterly  helpless  a8 
in  trying  to  speak  comfort  for  great  bereavement.  I  will  not  try 
it.  Time  is  the  only  comforter  for  the  loss  of  a  mother.  One  does 
not  believe  in  time  while  the  grief  is  quite  new.  One  feels  as  if  it 
could  never,  never  be  less.  And  yet  all  griefs,  when  there  is  no 
bitterness  in  them,  are  soothed  down  by  time.  And  your  grief  for 
your  mother  must  be  altogether  sweet  and  soft.  You  must  feel 
that  you  have  always  been  a  good  son  to  her;  that  you  have  always 
appreciated  her  as  she  deserved,  and  that  she  knew  this,  and  loved 
you  to  the  last  momeet  How  thankful  you  may  be  that  you  went 
when  you  did,  in  time  to  have  the  assurance  of  her  love  surviving 
all  bodily  weakness,  made  doubly  sure  to  you  by  her  last  look  and 
words.  Oh!  what  I  would  have  given  for  last  words,  to  keep  in 
my  innermost  heart  all  the  rest  of  my  life;  but  the  words  that 
awaited  me  were,  'Your  mother  is  dead!'  And  I  deserved  it 
should  so  end.  I  was  not  the  dutiful  child  to  my  mother  that  you 
have  been  to  yours.  Strange  that  1  should  have  passed  that  Sun- 
day in  such  utter  seclusion  here  as  if  in  sympathy  with  what  was 
going  on  there. 

It  is  a  great  mercy  you  have  had  some  sleep.  It  will  surely  be  a 
comfortable  reflection  for  you  in  coming  home  this  time,  that  you 
will  look  out  over  a  perfectly  empty  hen-court;  part  of  it  even  al- 
ready pulled  down,  as  all  the  rest,  I  daresay,  soon  will  be.  There 
are  cocks  enough  in  all  directions,  as  poor  Shuttleworth  remarked; 
but  none  will  plague  you  like  those,  which  had  become  a  fixed  idea, 
and  a  question,  Shall  I,  a  man  of  genius,  or  you.  '  a  sooty  washer- 
woman,' be  master  here?  If  you  would  like  to  know  the  ultimate 
fate  of  the  poultry,  it  was  sold  away  to  a  postman,  who  has  'a 
hobby  for  fowls,'  in  Milman's  Row.     I  let  them  make  what  profit 


23  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

they  could  of  their  fowls,  for  we  had  no  right  to  deprive  them  of 
them,  only  the  right  of  humanity  to  have  the  people  forced  to  do 
us  a  favour  voluntarily  for  a  suitable  compensation.  I  am  on 
terms  of  good  neighbourhood  now  with  all  the  Roncas,  except  the 
old  laundress  herself,  who  'took  to  her  bed  nearly  mad/  the  mar- 
ried daughter  told  me,  '  at  lying  under  a  penalty.'  She  must  leave 
the  place,'  she  said,  'her  husband  would  sooner  have  died  than 
broken  his  word,  when  he  had  passed  it — and  to  be  bound  under  a 
penalty!'  I  felt  quite  sorry  for  the  people  as  soon  as  I  had  got 
them  in  my  power,  and  have  done  what  I  could  to  soothe  them 
down. 

Ever  yours 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  163. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Thornkill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  July  13, 1854. 

Isn't  it  frightful,  dear  Mrs.  Russell,  what  a  rate  the  years  fly  at? 
Another  birthday  came  round  to  me!  and  it  looks  but  a  week  or 
two  ago  since  I  was  writing  to  you  from  Moffat!  '  The  days  look 
often  long  and  weary  enough  in  passing,  but  when  all  '  bunched 
up '  (as  my  maid  expresses  it)  into  a  year,  it  is  no  time  at  all  to  look 
back  on. 

We  are  still  in  London  with  no  present  thought  of  leaving  it. 
The  Ashburtons  have  gain  offered  us  Addiscombe  to  rusticate  at, 
■while  they  are  in  the  Highlands.  But,  in  spite  of  the  beauty  and 
magnificence  of  that  place,  and  all  its  belongings,  I  hate  being 
there  in  the  family's  absence — am  always  afraid  of  my  dog's  mak- 
ing foot-marks  on  the  sofas  or  carpet;  of  asking  the  fine  housemaid 
to  do  something  'not  in  her  work,'  &c.,  &c. ;  and  so  would,  for 
my  part,  much  rather  stay  in  my  own  house  all  the  year  round. 

When  Mr.  C gets  ill  with  the  heat,  tfowever — if  this  year  there 

is  to  be  any — he  may  choose  to  go  there  for  a  few  weeks,  and  will 
need  me  to  order  his  dinners. 

I  am  hoping  for  a  considerable  acquisition  before  long;  Miss  Jews- 
bury,  the  authoress  of  'The  Half  Sisters,'  «fec.,  the  most  intimate 
friend  I  have  in  the  world,  and  who  has  lived  generally  at  Manches- 
ter since  we  first  knew  each  other,  has  decided  to  come  and  live  near 
me  for  good.     Her  brother  married  eighteen  months  ago,  and  has 

I  Letter  lost. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  23 

realised  a  baby,  and  a  wife's  motlaer  in  the  liouse  besideS:  So 
Geraldine  felt  it  getting  too  hot  for  her  there.  It  will  be  a  real  gain 
to  have  a  woman  I  like,  so  near  as  the  street  in  which  I  have  de- 
cided on  an  apartment  for  her.  All  my  acquaintances  live  so  far 
off,  that  it  is  mechanically  impossible  to  be  mtimate  with  them. 

You  would  be  sorry  to  hear  of  poor  Elizabeth  Welsh's '  accident. 
Ann  has  written  me  two  nice  long  letters  since,  and  added  as  few 
printed  documents'  as  could  be  expected  from  her.  From  my 
cousins  I  hear  very  little  now.  Jeannie  in  Glasgow  never  was  a 
good  correspondent;  I  mean,  alwaj^s  wrote  remarkably  bad  letters, 
considering  her  facultj^  in  some  other  directions.  Now  there  is  a 
little  tone  of  married  woman,  and  much  made  of  married  woman, 
added  to  the  dulness  and  long-windedness,  that  irritates  me  into — 
silence.  As  for  the  others,  they  all  seem  to  think  I  have  nothing 
to  do  at  my  age,  but  send  them  two  or  three  letters  for  one!  When 
my  dear  uncle  was  alive,  my  anxiety  to  hear  of  him  overcame  all 
other  considerations;  and  I  humoured  this  negligence  more  than 
was  reasonable.  Besides,  Helen  wrote  prettj'  often,  poor  dear,  and 
good  letters,  telling  me  something.  Now,  as  they  are  all  healthy, 
and  'at  ease  in  Zion,'  I  mean  to  bear  in  mind,  more  than  hereto- 
fore, that  I  am  not  health)',  and  have  many  demands  on  my  time 
and  thought,  and  am,  besides,  sufficiently  their  elder  to  have  my 
letters  answered. 

I  began  to  make  a  cap  for  old  Mary;  but  it  is  impossible  to  get 
on  with  sewing  at  this  season ;  so  you  must  give  her  a  pound  of  tea 
from  me  instead.  Do  you  know  I  am  not  sure  to  this  moment  that 
she  ever  got  the  woollen  thing  I  sent  her  through  Mrs.  Aitken. 
Mrs.  Aitken  forgot  it,  I  know,  and  it  was  long  after  she  said  she 
had  sent  it  to  you  by  the  carrier. 

God  bless  you,  dear  ]Mrs.  Russell.  I  am  in  a  great  hurry,  visitors 
having  kept  me  up  all  the  forenoon.  Love  to  your  father  and  hus- 
band. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Caeltle, 
I  inclose  a  cheque  (!)  for  five  shillings. 

'  Her  eldest  aunt;  fell  and  dislocated  the  thigh-bone;  lame  ever  since. 
Youngest  aunt,  Grace,  is  now  dead  (since  1867). 
»  Given  to  inclose  tracts,  &c.    Poor,  good  Ann  1 


24  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS 

EXTKACTS. 

To  Mrs.  iiusseU. 

November  7,  1854. — Oh,  aren't  you  miseraWe  about  this  war?* 
I  am  haunted  day  and  night  with  the  thought  of  all  the  women  of 
England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  who  must  be  in  agonies  of  suspense 
about  their  nearest  and  dearest.  Thank  God  I  have  no  husband, 
or  father,  or  son,  in  that  horrible  war.  I  have  some  few  acquaint- 
ances, however,  and  one  intimate  friend — Colonel  Sterling;  and  I 
read  the  list  of  killed  and  wounded  always  with  a  sick  dread  of 
finding  his  name. 

To  the  same. 

December  30. — I  have  been  shut  up  in  the  house  almost  entirely 
for  six  weeks  with  one  of  my  long  colds;  but  for  that  I  should  have 
been  now  at  the  Grange,  where  I  had  engaged  myself  to  go  on  the 
19th.  The  month  of  country,  of  pure  air  and  green  fields,  might 
have  done  me  good;  but  I  felt  quite  cowardly  before  the  prospect 
of  so  much  dressing  for  dinner  and  talking  for  effect,  especially  as 

I  was  to  have  gone  this  time  on  my  own  basis,  Mr.  C being  too 

busy  with  his  book  to  waste  a  month  at  present,  besides  having  a 
sacred  horror  of  two  several  lots  of  children  who  were  to  be  there, 
and  the  bother  about  whom  drove  him  out  of  all  patience  last  year. 

For  me  no  letter  in  1854.  We  did  not  shift  at  all  from  home  that 
year,  but  were  constantly  together.  Addiscombe  at  Easter  was  in- 
tended (at  least  for  her)  but  it  misgave.  Ditto  the  Grange  with  me 
through  December  with  a  day  or  two  of  January — not  executable 
either  when  the  time  came.  She  was  in  poor  fluctuating  health;  I 
in  dismal  continual  wrestle  with  '  Friedrich,'  the  unexecutable  book, 
the  second  of  my  twelve  years'  'wrestle 'in  that  element!  My 
days  were  black  and  spiritually  muddy;  hers,  too,  very  weak  and 
dreamj^  though  ?i;icomplaining;  never  did  complain  once  of  her 
■?/«chosen  sufferings  and  miserable  eclipse  under  the  writing  of  that 
sad  book. 

One  day  last  year  (November  8,  1854)  I  had  run  out  to  Windsor 
(introduced  by  Lady  Ashburton  and  her  high  people)  in  quest  of 
Prussian  prints  and  portraits — saw  some — saw  Prince  Albert,  my 
one  interview,  for  about  an  hour,  till  Majesty  summoned  him  out 
to  walk.  The  Prince  was  very  good  and  human.  Next  autumn 
(1855)  I  was  persuaded  out  to  a  Suffolk  week,  under  Edward  Fitz~ 
gerald's  keeping,  who  had  been  a  familiar  of  mine  ever  since  the 
old  battle  of  Naseby  inquiries.     Father,  a  blundering  Irishman,. 


'  Thrice  stupid,  hideous  blotch  of  a  '  Ciimean  War,'  so  called. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  25 

once  proprietor  of  vast  estates  there  and  in  Suffolk,  &c.  Foolisli 
Naseby  monumeut,  his.  Edward  still  lives  in  Woodbridge,  or 
oftenest  in  his  coasting  boat,  a  solitary,  shy,  kindhearted  man. 
Farlingay  was  a  rough,  roomy  farm  and  house,  which  had  once 
been  papa's,  and  where  Edward  still  had  a  rough  and  kind  home 
when  he  chose.  I  did  not  fare  intolerably  there  at  all;  kind  people, 
rather  interesting  to  me.  Snatch  of  country  welcome  on  the  terms. 
The  good  Fitz  gave  me  a  long  day's  driving,  and,  indeed,  several 
others  shorter,  which  are  partly  in  my  recollection,  too.  I  had 
seen  Aid  borough,  had  bathed  there,  and  thought  as  a  quasi-desevted, 
but  not  the  least  dilapidated,  place  it  might  suit  us  for  a  lodging. 

Ugly  home  voyage  in  Ipswich  steamer,  &c.,  stuffy  railway  having 
grown  so  horrible  to  me.  At  Addiscombe  some  time  after,  I  had 
three  weeks,  mostly  of  utter  solitude,  strange  and  sombre.  She 
only  going  and  coming  as  need  was. — T.  C. 

LETTER  163. 

T.  Carlyle,  Farlingay  HalU 

5  Cheyne  Kow,  Chelsea:  Aug.  14, 1855. 

No,  dear,  I  don't  take  your  sea-bathing  place,  because  I  have  a 
place  of  my  own  in  view!  Positively  I  fancy  I  have  found  the 
coming  cottage.'  I  am  just  going  off  to  consult  Tait  about  it. 
And  at  all  events  you  must  go  and  look  at  it  with  me  next  Monday, 
before  we  incur  any  lodging  expenses,  which  would  be  best  laid  out 
on  a  place  '  all  to  oneself.' 

I  took  such  an  amount  of  air  and  exercise  yesterday  as  would 
have  done  for  most  nineteenth  century  '  females.'  Started  at  eight 
by  the  boat,^  with  a  good  tide,  and  was  at  the  station  a  quarter 
before  nine.  Was  quite  well  situated  in  my  open  carriage,  and 
reached  Brighton  without  the  least  fatigue.  Bathed,  the  first 
thing;  and  then  walked  along  the  shore  to  a  little  inn  I  had  been 
told  of  by  Neuberg  and  Ballantyne,  as  a  charming,  quiet  place  '  for 
even  Mrs.  Carlyle'  to  stop  at; — found  it,  of  course,  noisy,  dirty, 
not  to  be  even  dined  at  by  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  walked  on  still  further 
along  the  cliffs  to  a  village  I  had  seen  on  the  map,  and  was  sure 
must  be  very  retired.  The  name  of  it  is  Rottingdean,  It  is  four 
miles  at  least  from  the  Brighton  station,  I  walked  there  and  back 
again!  and  in  the  last  two  miles  along  the  cliffs  I  met  just  one 

>  On  visit  there  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald. 

*  A  poor  old  vacant  hut  at  Rottingdean,  which  was  to  be  furnished,  to  be 
sure!  Dear  soul,  what  trouble  she  took,  what  hopes  she  had,  about  that  I 
Sunt  lachrymce  rerum. 

•  Chelsea  steamboat,  for  London  Bridge. 

II.— 2 


26  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS 

man!  in  a  white  smock  1  ^Thus  you  perceive  the  travelling  ex- 
penses to  one  of  the  quietest  sea  villages  in  England  is  just,  per 
boat  and  third  class  train,  3s.  lOd. ! — a  convenient  locality  for  one's 
cottage  at  all  rates.  The  place  itself  is  an  old  sleepy-looking  lit- 
tle '.village  close  on  the  sea,  with  simple  poor  inhabitants;  not 
a  trace  of  a  lady  or  gentleman  bather  to  be  seen!  In  fact,  except 
at  the  inn,  there  were  no  lodgings  visible.  I  asked  the  maid  at 
the  inn,  'was  it  always  as  quiet  as  tliis? '  'Always,'  she  said  in 
a  half  whisper,  with  a  half  sigh,  '  a'most  too  quiet!'  Near  the 
inn,  and  so  near  the  sea  you  could  throw  a  stone  into  it,  are 
three  houses  in  a  row;  the  centre  one  old,  quaint,  and  empty,  small 
rooms,  but  enough  of  them;  and  capable  of  being  made  very  live- 
able in,  at  small  cost;  and  there  are  two  '  decent  women'  1  saw,  who 
might,  either  of  them,  be  trusted  to  keep  it.  But  I  should  fill  sheets 
with  details  without  giving  you  a  right  impression.  You  must  just 
go  and  look.  I  returned  to  Brighton  again,  after  having  dined  at 
the  Rottingdean  on  two  fresh  eggs,  a  plateful  of  homebaked  bread 
and  butter,  and  a  pint  bottle  of  Guinness's  (cha-arge  Is.  Qd.)  I 
walked  miles  up  and  down  Brighton  to  find  the  agent  for  that  cot- 
tage— did  finally  get  him  by  miracle;  name  and  street  being  both 
different  from  what  I  set  out  to  seek;  and  almost  committed  myself 
to  take  the  cottage  for  a  year  at  121.  (no  rates  or  taxes  whatever)  or 
to  take  it  for  three  months  at  61.  However,  I  took  fright  about 
your  not  liking  it;  and  the  expenses  of  furnishing,  &c.,  &c.,  on  the 
road  up;  and  wrote  him  a  note  from  Alsop's  shop  that  he  might 
not  refuse  any  other  offer  and  hold  me  engaged,  till  you  had  seen 
and  approved  of  it.  If  Tait  shared  this  cottage,  and  went  halves 
in  the  furnishing,  it  would  cost  very  little  indeed.  My  only  objec- 
t,iou  to  it,  this  morning,  is  that  one  might  not  be  able  to  get  it  an- 
other year;  and  then  what  would  be  done  with  the  furniture?  But 
oil,  what  a  beautiful  sea!  blue  as  the  Firth  of  Forth  it  was  last 
niglit!  I  laj-  on  the  cliffs  in  the  stillness,  and  looked  at  the  '  beauti- 
ful Nature'  for  an  hour  and  more;  which  was  such  a  doing  of  the 
pi(;turcsque  as  I  have  not  been  up  to  for  years.  The  most  curious 
thing  is  the  sudden  solitude  beginning  without  gradation  just  where 
K'enip  Town  ends.  It  is  as  if  the  Brighton  people  were  all  enclianted 
not  to  pass  beyond  their  pier. 

One  can  get  any  sort  of  lodgings  in  Brighton.  I  brought  away 
the  card  of  one — very  beautiful,  and  clean  as  a  pin,  where  the  lady 
'  received  no  dogs  nor  children;  dogs  she  did  not  dislike,  but  she 
dreaded  their  fleas! '    An  excellent  sitting-room  and  bed-room  30». ; 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  27 

sitting-room  and  two  bed-rooms  21. ;  but  then  they  are  such  rooms 
as  one  has  at  home,  not  like  Eastbourne !  But  Brighton  is  Brighton. 
Rottingdean  is  lilie  a  place  in  a  novel. 

I  am  stiff  to-day.  I  had  to  walk  to  St.  Paul's  last  night,  after  all 
my  walking,  before  I  got  an  omnibus,  and  then  from  Alsop's  home. 

And  last  night  the  results  of  Cremorne  in  the  King's  Road  were 
— what  sliall  I  say?  strange,  upon  my  honour!  First  I  heard  a 
measured  tread;  and  then,  out  of  the  darkness,  advanced  on  me 
eight  soldiers  carrying,  high  over  their  heads,  a  bier!  on  which  lay 
a  figure  covered  with  a  black  cloth,  all  but  the  white,  white  face  ! 
And  before  I  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  that,  some  twenty 
yards  further  on,  behold,  precisely  the  same  thing  over  again !  I 
asked  a  working  man  what  had  happened.  'It  was  a  great  night 
at  Cremorne,  storming  of  Sebastopol ;  thirty  or  forty  soldiers  were 
storming, ^  when  the  scaflfoldiug  broke,  and  they  all  fell  in  on  their 
own  bayonets!  The  two  who  had  passed  were  killed,  they  said,  and 
all  the  others  hurt.'  But  a  sergeant,  whom  I  accosted  after,  told 
me  there  were  none  killed  and  only  three  hurt  badly. 

Lord  Goodrich  had  your  '  Zouaves,'*  and  it  is  come  back  with  a 
farewell  note  to  me  from  the  lady.  And  Lady  Sandwich  brought 
on  Sunday  'Anecdotes  Germaniques.'  Is  that  one  of  the  books 
you  had  last?    Your  silent  room  is  swept  and  the  books  dusted. 

I  am  making  shocking  writing;  but  my  pen  is  horrid;  my  mind 
in  a  frightful  hurry;  and  my  hand  very  unsteady  with  yesterday's 
fatigues. 

A  letter  from  you  was  eagerly  asked  for  last  night,  but  it  came 
this  morning. 

Tliose  cows "  must  have  been  Philistines  in  some  previous  state 
of  existence.  Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

Extracts  prom  Mrs.  Cabltle's  Journal. 

A  part  only  of  the  following  extracts  was  selected  by  Mr.  Car- 
lyle,  and  a  part,  suflicient  merely  to  leave  a  painful  impression, 
without  explaining  the  origin  of  his  wife's  discomfort.  There  ought 
to  be  no  mystery  about  Carlj'le,  and  there  is  no  occasion  for  mys- 
tery. The  diaries  and  other  papers  were  placed  in  ray  hands,  that 
I  might  add  whatever  I  might  think  necessary  in  the  way  of  eluci- 
dation, and  in  this  instance  I  have  thought  it  right  to  avail  myself 

•  Populace,  soldiers,  officers:  was  there  ever  seen  such  a  transaction  among 
men  before? 

*  Some  French  booklet  on  the  subject.  •  Lowing  bj  night  1 


28  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

of  the  permission.  It  has  been  already  seen  that  among  the  acquaint- 
ances in  tlie  great  world  to  whom  Carlyle's  reputation  early  intro- 
duced him,  were  Mr.  and  Lady  Harriet  Baring,  afterwards  Lord 
and  Lady  Ashburton.  Mr.  Baring,  one  of  the  best  and  wisest  men 
in  the  high  circle  of  English  public  life,  was  among  the  first  to 
recognise  Carlisle's  extraordinary  qualities.  He  soon  became,  and 
be  remained  to  his  death,  the  most  intimate  and  attached  of 
Carlyle's  friends.  Lady  Harriet  was  a  gifted  and  brilliant  woman, 
who  cared  nothing  for  the  frivolous  occupations  of  fashion.  She 
sought  out  and  surrounded  herself  with  the  most  distinguished 
persons  in  politics  and  literature,  and  was  the  centre  of  a  planetary 
s^'stem,  in  which  statesmen,  poets,  artists,  every  man  who  had  raised 
himself  into  notice  by  genuine  intellectual  worth,  revolved,  while 
she  lived,  as  satellites.  By  Lady  Harriet,  Carlyle  was  ardently 
welcomed.  In  the  society  which  gathered  about  herself  and  iier  hus- 
band, he  found  himself  among  persons  whom  he  could  more  nearly 
regard  as  his  equals  than  any  whom  he  had  met  with  elsewhere. 
He  was  thrown  into  connection  with  the  men  Avho  were  carrying 
on  the  business  of  the  world,  in  a  sphere  where  he  could  make  his 
influence  felt  among  them.  He  was  perhaps,  at  one  time,  ambi- 
tious of  taking  an  activ  e  part  in  such  affairs  himself,  and  of  '  doing 
something  more  for  the  world,'  as  Lord  Byron  said,  'than  writing 
books  for  it.'  At  any  rate  his  visits  to  Bath  House  and  the  Grange, 
Lord  Ashburton's  house  in  Hampshire,  gave  him  great  enjoyment, 
and  for  many  years  as  much  of  his  leisure  as  he  could  spare  was 
spent  in  the  Asiiburtou  society. 

The  acquaintance  wiiich  was  so  agreeable  to  himself  was  less 
pleasant  to  Mrs.  Carlyle.  She  was  intensely  proud  of  her  husband, 
and  wished  to  be  the  first  with  him.  She  had  married  him  against 
the  advice  of  her  friends,  to  be  the  companion  of  a  person  whom 
she,  and  she  alone,  at  that  time,  believed  to  be  destined  for  some- 
thing extraordinary.  She  liad  worked  for  him  like  a  servant,  she 
had  borne  poverty  and  suffering.  She  had  put  up  with  his  hu- 
mours, which  were  often  extremely  trying.  As  long  as  she  felt 
that  he  was  really  attached  to  her,  she  had"  taken  the  harder  parts 
of  her  lot  lightly  and  jestingly,  and  by  her  incessant  watchfulness 
had  made  it  possible  for  him  to  accomplish  his  work.  And  now 
his  fame  was  established.  He  had  risen  beyond  her  highest  ex- 
pectations; she  saw  him  feared,  admired,  reverenced,  the'acknow- 
ledged  sovereign,  at  least  in  many  ej'es,  of  English  literature;  and 
she  found,  or  thought  she  found,  that,  as  he  had  risen  she  had  be- 
come, what  in  an  early  letter  she  had  said  she  dreaded  that  she 
might  be,  a  '  mere  accido.nt  of  his  lot.'  When  he  was  absorbed  in 
his  work,  she  saw  but  little  of  him.  The  work  was  a  sufficient  ex- 
planation as  long  as  others  were  no  better  off  than  she  was.  But 
when  she  found  that  he  had  leisure  for  Bath  House,  though  none 
for  her,  she  became  jealous  and  irritable.  She  was  herself  of 
course  invited  there;  but  the  wives  of  men  of  genius,  like  the 
wives  of  bishops,  do  not  take  the  social  rank  of  their  husbands. 
Women  understand  how  to  make  one  another  uncomfortable  in  lit- 
tle ways  invisible  to  others,  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  soon  perceived  that 
she  was  admitted  into  those  high  regions  for  her  husband's  sake 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  29 

and  not  for  lier  own.  She  Lad  a  fiery  temper,  and  a  strong  Scotch 
republican  spirit,  and  she  would  have  preferred  to  see  Carlyle 
reigning  alone  in  his  own  kingdom.  Her  auger  was  wrong  in  it- 
self, and  exaggerated  in  the  form  which  it  assumed.  But  Carlyle 
too  was  to  blame.  He  ought  to  have  managed  his  friendships  bet- 
ter. He  ought  to  have  considered  whether  she  bad  not  causes  of 
complaint;  and  to  have  remembered  how  much  he  owed  to  her 
care  for  him.  But  Carlyle  was  wilful,  and  impatient  of  contradic- 
tion. When  his  will  was  crossed,  or  resisted,  his  displeasure 
rushed  into  expressions  not  easilj^  forgotten,  and  thus  there  grew 
up  between  these  two,  who  at  heart  each  admired  and  esteemed 
the  other  more  than  any  other  person  in  the  world,  a  condition  of 
things  of  which  the  trace  is  visible  in  this  diary.  The  shadow 
slanted  backwards  over  their  whole  lives  together;  and  as  she 
brooded  over  her  wrongs,  she  came  to  think  with  bitterness  of 
many  recollections  which  she  had  laughed  away  or  forgotten. 
Carlyle's  letters  during  all  this  period  are  uniformly  tender  and 
affectionate,  and  in  them  was  his  true  self,  if  she  could  but  have 
allowed  herself  to  see  it.  'Oh,' he  often  said  to  me  after  she  was 
gone,  '  if  I  could  but  see  her  for  five  minutes  to  assure  her  that  I 
had  really  cared  for  her  throughout  all  that!  But  she  never  knew 
it,  she  never  knew  it.' — J.  A.  F. 

October  21,  1855. — I  remember  Charles  Buller  saying  of  the  Duch- 
ess de  Praslin's  murder,  '  What  could  a  poor  fellow  do  with  a  wife 
who  kept  a  journal  but  murder  her?'  There  was  a  certain  truth 
hidden  in  this  light  remark.  Your  journal  all  about  feelings  ag- 
gravates whatever  is  factitious  and  morbid  in  j^ou;  that  I  have 
made  experience  of.  And  now  the  only  sort  of  journal  I  would 
keep  should  have  to  do  with  what  Mr.  Carlyle  calls  'the  fact  of 
things.'  It  is  very  bleak  and  barren,  this  fact  of  things,  as  I  now 
see  it — very;  and  what  good  is  to  result  from  writing  of  it  in  a  pa- 
per book  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  But  I  have  taken  a  notion  to, 
and  perhaps  I  shall  blacken  more  paper  this  time,  when  I  begin 
quite  promiscuously  without  any  moral  end  in  view;  but  just  as 
the  Scotch  professor  drank  whisky,  because  I  like  it,  and  because 
it's  cheap. 

October  23. — I  was  cut  short  in  my  introduction  last  night  by  Mr. 
C.'s  return  from  Bath  House.  That  eternal  Bath  House.  I  won- 
der how  many  thousand  miles  Mr.  C.  has  walked  between  there 
and  here,  putting  it  all  together;  setting  up  always  another  mile- 
stone and  another  betwixt  himself  and  me.  Oh,  good  gracious! 
when  I  first  noticed  that  heavy  yellow  house  without  knowing,  or 
caring  to  know,  who  it  belonged  to,  how  far  I  was  from  dreaming 
that  through  years  and  years  I  sliould  carry  every  stone's  weight  of 
it  on  my  heart.     About  feelings  already !    AVell,  I  will  not  proceed, 


80  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

though  the  thoughts  I  had  in  my  bed  about  all  that  were  tragical 
enough  to  fill  a  page  of  thrilling  interest  for  myself,  and  though,  as 
George  Sand  lias  shrewdly  remarked,  '  rien  ne  soulage  comma  la 
rhetorique.' 

October  23.— A  stormy  day  within  doors,  so  I  walked  out  early, 
and  walked,  walked,  walked.  If  peace  and  quietness  be  not  in  one's 
own  power,  one  can  always  give  oneself  at  least  bodily  fatigue- 
no  such  bad  succedaueura  after  all.  Life  gets  to  look  for  me  like 
a  sort  of  kaleidoscope— a  few  things  of  different  colors — black  pre- 
dominating, which  fate  shakes  into  new  and  ever  new  combina- 
tions, but  always  the  same  things  over  again.  To- day  has  been  so 
like  a  day  I  still  remember  out  of  ten  years  ago ;  the  same  still 
dreamy  October  weather,  the  same  tumult  of  mind  contrasting  witli 
the  outer  stillness;  the  same  causes  for  that  tumult.  Then,  as  now, 
I  had  walked,  walked,  walked,  with  no  aim  but  to  tire  myself. 

October  25. — Oh,  good  gracious  alive;  what  a  whirlwind — or 
rather  whirlpool — of  a  day !  Breakfast  had  '  passed  off '  better  or 
worse,  and  I  was  at  work  on  a  picture-frame,  my  own  invention, 
and  pretending  to  be  a  little  work  of  art,  when  Mr.  C.'s  bell  rang 
like  mad,  and  was  followed  by  cries  of  '  Come,  come!  are  you  com- 
ing?' Arrived  at  the  second  landing,  three  steps  at  a  time,  I  saw 
Mr.  C.  and  Ann  in  the  spare  bedroom  hazily  through  a  waterfall! 
The  great  cistern  had  overflowed,  and  was  raining  and  pouring 
down  through  the  new  ceiling,  and  plashing  up  on  the  new  carpet. 
All  the  baths  and  basins  in  the  house  were  quickly  assembled  on 
floor,  and  I,  on  my  knees,  mopping  up  with  towels  and  sponges,  &c. 

In  spite  of  this  disaster,  and  the  shocking  bad  temper  induced  by 
it,  I  have  had  to  put  on  my  company  face  to-night  and  receive. 

and were  the  party.     Decidedly  I  must  have  a  little  of 

'  that  damned  thing  called  the  milk  of  human  kindness '  after  all, 

for  the  assurance  that  poor was  being  amused  kept  me  from 

feeling  bored. 

My  heart  is  very  sore  to-night,  but  I  have  promised  myself  not  to 
make  this  journal  a  'miserere,'  so  I  will  take  a  dose  of  morphia 
and  do  the  impossible  to  sleep. 

October  31. — Rain!  rain!  rain!  '  Oh,  Lord!  this  is  too  ridiculous,' 
as  the  Anuandale  farmer  exclaimed,  starting  to  his  feet  when  it  be- 
gan pouring,  in  the  midst  of  his  prayer  for  a  dry  hay  time.  I  have 
no  hay  to  be  got  in,  or  anything  else  that  I  know  of,  to  be  got  in; 
but  I  have  a  plentiful  crop  of  thorns  to  be  got  out,  and  that,  too, 
requires  good  weather.     To  day's  post  brought  the  kindest  of  let- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  81 

ters  from  Geraldine,  enclosing  a  note  from  Lady  de  Capel  Broke 
she  is  staying  with,  inviting  me  to  Oaliley  Hall.  This  lady's  '  faith 
in  things  unseen '  excited  similar  faith  on  mj^  part,  and  I  would  go, 
had  I  nothing  to  consider  but  how  I  should  like  it  when  there.  I 
had  to  write  a  refusal,  however.  Mr.  C.  is  '  neither  to  hold  nor  bind  ' 
•when  I  make  new  visiting  acquaintances  on  my  own  basis,  how- 
ever unexceptionable  the  person  may  be.  The  evening  devoted  to 
mending  Mr.  C.'s  trowsers  among  other  things!  '  Being  an  only 
child,'  I  never  '  wished  '  to  sew  men's  trowsers — no,  never! 

November  1. — At  last  a  fair  morning  to  rise  to,  thanks  God! 
Mazzini  never  says  '  thank  God '  by  any  chance,  but  always 
'thanks  God;'  and  I  find  it  sound  more  grateful.  Fine  weather 
outside  in  fact,  but  indoors  blowing  a  devil  of  a  gale.  Off  into 
space,  then,  to  get  the  green  mould  that  has  been  gathering  upon 
me  of  late  days  brushed  off  by  human  contact. 

November  b. — Alone  this  evening.  Lady  A.  in  town  again;  and 
Mr.  C.  of  course  at  Bath  House. 

When  I  think  of  what  I  is 

And  what  I  used  to  was, 
I  gin  to  think  I've  sold  myself 

For  very  little  cas. 

November  6. — Mended  Mr.  C.'s  dressing-gown.  Much  movement 
under  the  free  sky  is  needful  for  me  to  keep  my  heart  from  throb- 
bing up  into  my  head  and  maddening  it.  They  must  be  comforta- 
ble people  who  have  leisure  to  think  about  going  to  Heaven! 
My  most  constant  and  pressing  anxiety  is  to  keep  out  of  Bed- 
lam! that's  all  ...  .  Ach!  If  there  were  no  feelings  'what 
steady  sailing  craft  we  should  be,'  as  the  nautical  gentleman  of  some 
novel  says. 

November  1. — Dear,  dear!  What  a  sick  day  this  has  been  with 
me.  Oil,  my  mother!  nobody  sees  when  I  am  suffering  now;  and 
I  have  learnt  to  suffer  'All  to  myself,'  From  'only  childless'  to 
that,  is  a  far  and  a  rough  road  to  travel. 

Oh,  little  did  my  mother  think, 

The  day  she  cradled  me, 
The  lands  I  was  to  travel  in. 

The  death  I  was  to  dee. 

November.  — '  S'exagerer  ses  droits,  oublier  ceux  des  autres,  cela 
peut  gtre  fort  commode;  mais  cela  n'est  pas  toujonrs  profitable  et 
on  a  lieu  souvent  de  s'en  rtpcntir.     II  vaudrait  mieux  souvent 


32  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

avoir  des  vices  qu'un  caractfere  difficile.  Pour  que  les  femmes 
perdeut  les  families,  il  faut  qu'elles  aillent  jusqu'a  I'inconduite, 
jusqu'au  desordre.  Pour  les  y  pousser,  il  suffit  souveut  qu'un 
homrae  gsiie  toutes  ses  bonnes  qualites  et  les  leurs  par  des  procedea 
injustes,  de  la  durete  et  du  dedaiu.' 

It  is  not  always,  however,  that  unjust  treatment,  harshness,  and 
disdain  in  her  husband  drives  a  vfoman  jusqu'au  desordre,  but  it 
drives  her  to  something,  and  something  not  to  his  advantage  any 
more  than  to  hers. 

To-day  has  been  like  other  days  outwardly.  I  have  done  this 
and  that,  and  people  have  come  and  gone,  but  all  as  in  a  bad 
dream. 

November  13. — Taken  by to  Lord  John's  lecture  at  Exeter 

Hall.  The  crowd  was  immense,  and  the  applause  terrific;  the  lec- 
ture 'water  bewitched.'  One  thing  rather  puzzled  me:  at  every 
mention  of  the  name  Christ  (and  there  was  far  too  much  of  it)  the 
clapping  and  stamping  rose  to  such  a  pitch  that  one  expected  al- 
ways it  must  end  in  'hip,  hip,  hurnih.'  Did  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association  take  his  Lordship's  recognition  of  Christ  as  a 
personal  compliment,  or  did  it  strike  them  with  admiration  that  a 
Lord  should  know  about  Christ? 

November  20. — I  have  been  fretting  inwardly  all  this  day  at  the 
prospect  of  having  to  go  and  appeal  before  the  Tax  Commissioners 
at  Kensington  to-morrow  morning.  Still,  it  must  be  done.  If  Mr. 
C .  should  go  himself  he  would  run  his  head  against  some  post  in 
his  impatience;  and  besides,  for  me,  when  it  is  over  it  will  be  over, 
whereas  he  would  not  get  the  better  of  it  for  twelve  months — if 
ever  at  all. 

November  2\. — Omemiseram!  not  one  wink  of  sleep  the  whole 
night  through!  so  great  the  '  rale  mental  agony  in  my  own  inside' 
at  the  thougiit  of  that  korrid  appealing.  It  was  with  feeling  like 
the  ghost  of  a  dead  dog,  that  I  rose  and  dressed  and  drank  my 
coffee,  and  then  started  for  Kensington.  Mr.  C.  said  '  the  voice  of 
honour  seemed  to  call  on  him  to  go  himself.'  But  either  it  did  not 
call  loud  enough,  or  he  would  not  listen  to  that  charmer.  I  went 
in  a  cab,  to  save  all  my  breath  for  appealing.  Set  down  at  30 
Hornton  Street,  I  found  a  dirty  private-like  house,  only  with  Tax 
Ofiice  painted  on  the  door.  A  dirty  woman- servant  opened  the 
deor,  and  told  me  the  Commissioners  would  not  be  there  for  half- 
an-hour,  but  I  might  walk  up.  There  were  already  some  half- 
score  of  men  assembled  in  the  waiting-room,  among  whom  I  saw 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  fiS 

the  man  who  cleans  our  clocks,  and  a  young  apothecary  of  Cheyne 
"Walk.  All  the  others,  to  look  at  them,  could  not  have  heen  sus- 
pected for  an  instant,  I  should  have  said,  of  making  a  hundred  a 
year.  Feeling  in  a  false  position,  I  stood  hy  myself  at  a  window 
and  'thought  shame'  (as  children  say).  Men  trooped  in  hy  twos 
and  threes,  till  the  small  room  was  pretty  well  filled;  at  last  a 
woman  showed  herself.  O  my  I  did  I  ever  know  the  full  value 
of  any  sort  of  woman — as  woman — heforel  By  this  time  some 
benches  had  been  brought  in,  and  I  was  sitting  nearest  the  door. 
The  woman  sat  down  on  the  same  bench  with  me,  and,  misery  ac- 
quainting one  with  strange  bedfellows,  we  entered  into  conversa- 
tion without  having  been  introduced,  and  I  had  '  the  happiness,'  as 
Allan  termed  it,  'of  seeing  a  woman  more  miserable  than  mj'self.' 
Two  more  women  arrived  at  intervals,  one  a  young  girl  of  Dundee, 
'sent  by  my  uncle  that's  ill;'  who  looked  to  be  always  recapitulat- 
ing inwardly  what  she  had  been  told  to  say  to  the  Commissioners. 
The  other,  a  widow,  and  such  a  goose,  poor  thing;  she  was  bring- 
ing an  appeal  against  no  overcharge  in  her  individual  paper,  but 
against  the  doubliug  of  the  Income  Tax.  She  had  paid  the  double 
tax  once,  she  said,  because  she  was  told  they  would  take  her  goods 
for  it  if  she  didn't — and  it  was  so  disgraceful  for  one  in  a  small 
business  to  have  her  goods  taken;  besides  it  was  very  disadvantage- 
ous; but  now  that  it  was  come  round  again  she  would  give.  She 
seemed  to  attach  an  irresistible  pathos  to  the  title  of  widoic,  this 
womau.  'And  me  a  widow,  ma'm,'  was  the  winding  up  of  her 
every  paragraph.  The  men  seemed  as  worried  as  the  women, 
though  they  put  a  better  face  on  it,  even  carrying  on  a  sort  of  sickly 
laughing  and  bantering  with  one  another.  '  First-come  lady,' 
called  the  clerk,  opening  a  small  side-door,  and  I  stept  forward  into 
a  grand  peutetre.  There  was  an  instant  of  darkness  while  the  one 
door  was  shut  behind  and  the  other  opened  in  front;  and  there  I 
stood  in  a  dim  room  where  three  men  sat  round  a  large  table  spread 
■with  papers.  One  held  a  pen  ready  over  an  open  ledger;  another 
was  taking  snuff,  and  had  taken  still  worse  in  his  time,  to  judge 
by  his  sliaky,  clayed  appearance.  The  third,  who  was  plainly  the 
cock  of  that  dung-heap,  was  sitting  for  Rhadamanthus — a  Rhada- 
manthus  without  the  justice.  '  Name,'  said  the  horned-owl-looking 
individual  holding  the  pen.  '  Carlylc.'  'What?'  'Carlyle.' 
Seeing  he  still  looked  dubious,  I  spelt  it  for  him.  'Ila!'  cried 
Rhadamanthus,  a  big,  bloodless-faced,  insolent-looking  fellow. 
'What  is  this?  why  is  Mr.  Carlyle  not  come  himself?  Didn't  he 
U.— 2* 


34  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

get  a  letter  ordering  him  to  appear?  Mr.  Carlyle  wrote  some  non- 
sense about  being  exempted  from  coming,  and  I  desired  an  answer 
to  be  sent  that  he  must  come,  must  do  as  other  people.'  'Then, 
sir,'  I  said,  '  your  desire  has  been  neglected,  it  would  seem,  my 
husband  having  received  no  such  letter;  and  I  was  told  by  one  of 
your  fellow  Commissioners  that  Mr.  Carlyle's  personal  appearance 
was  not  indispensable.'  'Huflfgh!  Huffgh!  what  does  Mr.  Carlyle 
mean  by  saying  he  has  no  income  from  his  writings,  when  he  him- 
self fixed  it  in  the  beginning  at  a  hundred  and  fifty?'  'It  means, 
sir,  that,  in  ceasing  to  write,  one  ceases  to  be  paid  for  writing,  and 
Mr.  Carlyle  has  published  nothing  for  several  years.'  'Huffgh! 
Huffgh!  I  understand  nothing  about  that.'  'I  do,' whispered  the 
snuff-taking  Commissioner  at  my  ear.  '  I  can  quite  understand  a 
literary  man  does  not  always  make  money.  I  would  take  it  off, 
for  my  share,  but  (sinking  his  voice  still  lower)  I  am  only  one  voice 
here,  and  not  the  most  important.'  'There,'  said  I,  handing  to 
Rhadamanthus  Chapman  and  Hall's  account;  'that  will  prove  Mr. 
Carlyle's  statement.'  'What  am  I  to  make  of  that?  Huffgh!  we 
should  have  Mr.  Carlyle  here  to  swear  to  this  before  we  believe  it.' 
'  If  a  gentleman's  word  of  honour  written  at  the  bottom  of  that 
paper  is  not  enough,  you  can  put  me  on  my  oath:  I  am  ready  to 
swear  to  it.'  'You!  you,  indeed!  No,  no!  we  can  do  nothing  with 
your  oath.'  'But,  sir,  I  understand  my  husband's  affairs  fully, 
better  than  he  does  himself.'  'That  I  can  well  believe;  but  we 
can  make  nothing  of  this,'  flinging  my  document  contemptuously 
on  the  table.  The  horned  owl  picked  it  up,  glanced  over  it  while 
Rhadamanthus  was  tossing  papers  about,  and  grumbling  about 
'  people  that  wouldn't  conform  to  rules;'  then  handed  it  back  to 
him,  saying  deprecatingly:  'But,  sir,  this  is  a  very  plain  state- 
ment.' 'Then  what  has  Mr.  Carlyle  to  live  upon?  You  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  he  lives  on  that?  '  pointing  to  the  document. 
'  Heaven  forbid,  sir !  but  I  am  not  here  to  explain  what  Mr.  Carlyle 
has  to  live  on,  only  to  declare  his  income  from  literature  during  the 
last  three  years.'  'True!  true!'  luumbled  the  not-most-important 
voice  at  my  elbow.  '  Mr.'^'Carlyle,  I  believe,  has  landed  income.' 
'Of  which,'  said  I  haughtily,  for  my  spirit  was  up,  'I  have  for- 
tunately no  account  to  render  in  this  kingdom  and"  to  this  board.' 
'  Take  off  fifty  pounds,  say  a  hundred — take  off  a  hundred  pounds,' 
said  Rhadamanthus  to  the  horned  owl.  'If  we  write  Mr.  Carlyle 
down  a  hundred  and  fifty  he  has  no  reason  to  complain,  I  think. 
There,  you  may  go.     Mr.   Carlyle  has  no  reason   to   complain.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  85 

Second-come  woman  was  already  introduced,  and  I  was  motioned 
to  the  door;  but  I  could  not  depart  without  sayiug  that  'at  all 
events  there  was  no  use  in  complaining,  since  they  had  the  power 
to  enforce  their  decision.'  On  stepping  out,  my  first  thought  was, 
"What  a  mercy  Carlyle  didn't  come  himself!  For  the  rest,  though  it 
might  have  gone  better,  I  was  thankful  that  it  had  not  gone  worse. 
When  one  has  been  threatened  with  a  great  injustice,  one  accepts 
a  smaller  as  a  favour. 

Went  back  to  spend  the  evening  with  Geraldine  when  Mr.  C.  set 
forth  for  Bath  House.     Her  ladyship  in  town  for  two  days. 

November  28. — Took  the  black  silk presented  me  with  last 

Christmas  to  Catchpool,  that  it  might  be  made  up.  '  Did  you  buy 
this  yourself,  ma'am?'  said  Catchpool,  rubbing  it  between  her  fin- 
ger and  thumb.  'No,  it  was  a  present;  but  why  do  you  ask?' 
'  Because,  ma'am,  I  was  thinking,  if  you  bought  it  yourself,  you 
had  been  taken  in.  It  is  so  poor;  very  trashy  indeed.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  so  trashy  a  moire.' 

December  4. — I  hardly  ever  begin  to  write  here  that  I  am  not 
tempted  to  break  out  into  Jobisms  about  my  bad  nights.  How  I 
keep  on  my  legs  and  in  my  senses  with  such  little  snatches  of 
sleep  is  a  wonder  to  myself.  Oh,  to  cure  anyone  of  a  terror  of 
annihilation,  just  put  him  on  my  allowance  of  sleep,  and  see  if  he 
don't  get  to  long  for  sleep,  sleep,  unfathomable  and  everlasting 
sleep  as  the  only  conceivable  heaven. 

December  11. — Oh  dear!  I  wish  this  Grange  business  were  well 
over.  It  occupies  me  (the  mere  preparation  for  it)  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  quiet  thought  and  placid  occupation.  To  have  to  care  for 
my  dress  at  this  time  of  day  more  than  1  ever  did  when  young  and 
pretty  and  happy  (God  bless  me,  to  think  that  I  was  once  all  that !) 
on  penalty  of  being  regarded  as  a  blot  on  the  Grange  gold  and 
azure,  is  really  too  bad.  Ach  Oott!  if  we  had  been  left  in  the 
sphere  of  life  we  belong  to,  how  much  better  it  would  have  been 
for  us  in  many  ways! 

March  24,  1856.— We  are  now  at  the  24th  of  March,  1856,  and 
from  this  jjoint  of  time,  my  journal,  let  us  renew  our  daily  inter- 
course without  looking  back.  Looking  back  was  not  intended  by 
nature,  evidently,  from  the  fact  that  our  eyes  are  in  our  faces  and 
not  in  our  hind  heads.  Look  straight  before  you,  then,  Jane  Car- 
lyle, and,  if  possible,  not  over  the  heads  of  things  either,  away 
into  the  distant  vague.  Look,  above  all,  at  the  duty  nearest  hand, 
and  what's  more,  do  it.     Ah,  the  spirit  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is 


86  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

weak,  and  four  weeks  of  illness  have  made  mine  weak  as  water. 
No  galloping  over  London  as  in  seven-leagued  boots  for  me  at  pres- 
ent. Today  I  walked  with  effort  one  little  mile,  and  thought  it  a 
great  feat;  but  if  the  strength  has  gone  out  of  me,  so  also  has  the 
unrest.  I  can  sit  and  lie  even  very  patiently  doing  nothing.  To 
be  sure,  I  am  always  going  on  with  the  story' in  my  head,  as  poor 
Paulet  expressed  it;  but  even  that  has  taken  a  dreamy  contempla- 
tive character,  and  excites  no  emotions  '  to  speak  of. '  In  fact, 
sleep  has  come  to  look  to  me  the  highest  virtue  and  the  greatest 
happiness;  that  is,  good  sleep,  untroubled,  beautiful,  like  a  child's. 
Ah  me! 

March  26. — To-day  it  has  blown  knives  and  files;  a  cold,  rasping, 
savage  day;  excruciating  for  sick  nerves.  Dear  Geraldine,  as  if 
she  would  contend  with  the  very  elements  on  my  behalf,  brought 
me  a  bunch  of  violets  and  a  bouquet  of  the  loveliest  most  fragrant 
flowers.  Talking  with  her  all  I  have  done  or  could  do.  '  Have 
mercy  upon  me,  O  Lord ;  for  I  am  weak :  O  Lord,  heal  me,  for  my 
bones  are  vexed.  IMy  soul  also  is  sore  vexed :  but  thou,  O  Lord, 
how  long?  Return,  O  Lord,  deliver  my  soul:  O  save  me  for  thy 
mercies'  sake.' 

March  27.— Mr.  C.  took  Nero  out  with  him  to-night,  and  half  an 
hour  after  he  opened  the  door  with  his  latch-key  and  called  in,  'Is 
that  vermin  come  back?'  Having  received  my  horrified  'No!'  he 
hurried  off  again,  and  for  twenty  minutes  I  was  in  the  agonies  of 
one's  dog  lost,  my  heart  beating  up  into  my  ears.  At  last  I  heard 
Mr.  C.'s  feet  in  the  street;  and,  oh  joy!  heard  him  gollaring  at 
something,  and  one  knew  what  the  little  bad  something  was.  Ach ! 
we  could  have  better  spared  a  better  dog. 

March  30. — Plattnauer  told  me  how  the  'grande  passion'  be- 
tween   and had  gone  to  the  dogs  utterly — the  general  re- 
cipients of  'grandes  passions.' 

Oh,  waly,  waly,  love  is  bormie 
A  little  while  when  it  is  new; 

But  when  it's  auld 

It  waxeth  cauld, 
And  melts  away  like  morning  dew. 

Beautiful  verse,  sweet  and  sad,  like  barley  sugar  dissolved  in  tears. 
About  the  morning  dew,  however!     I  should  rather  say,  '  Goes  out 
like  candle  snuff'  would  be  a  truer  simile;  only  that  would  not 
suit  the  rhyme. 
April  11. — To-day  I  called  on  '  my  lady  '  come  to  town  for  the 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  87 

season.  She  was  perfectl}'  civil,  for  a  wonder.  To-day  also  I 
lighted  upon  an  iuterestiiig  num.  It  was  in  our  baker's  shop. 
While  the  baker  was  making  out  my  bill  he  addressed  some  coun- 
sel to  a  dark  little  man  witli  a  wooden  leg  and  a  basket  of  small 
wares.  That  made  nie  look  at  the  man  to  watch  its  effect  upon 
liim.  'I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,'  said  this  Jesuit  of  a  baker;  'Go 
and  join  some  Methodists'  chapel  for  six  months;  make  yourself 
agreeable  to  them,  and  you'll  soon  have  friends  that  M'ill  help  you 
in  your  object.'  The  man  of  the  wooden  leg  said  not  a  word,  but 
looked  hard  in  the  baker's  face  with  a  half-perplexed,  half-amused, 
and  wholly  disagreeing  expression.  'Nothing  like  religion,'  went 
on  the  tempter,  '  for  gaining  a  man  friends.  Don't  you  think  so, 
ma'am?'  (catching  my  eye  on  him).  '  I  think,'  said  I,  'that  what- 
ever this  man's  object  may  be,  he  is  not  likely  to  be  benefited  in 
the  long  run  by  constituting  himself  a  hj'pocrite.'  The  man's 
black  eye  flashed  on  me  a  look  of  thanks  and  approbation.  'Oh,' 
eaid  the  baker,  '  I  don't  mean  him  to  be  a  hypocrite,  but  truly  re- 
ligious, you  know.'  'If  this  man  will  be  advised  by  me,'  I  said, 
'  he  will  keep  himself  clear  of  the  true  religion  that  is  purposely  put 
on  some  morning  to  make  himself  friends.'  'Yes,'  said  the  poor 
man  pithily,  '  not  that  at  no  price! '  In  my  enthusiasm  at  his  an- 
swer, and  the  manner  of  it,  I  gave  him — sixpence!  and  inquired 
into  his  case.  He  had  been  a  baker  for  some  time,  met  with  an 
accident,  and  "  had  to  let  his  leg  be  taken,'  after  trying  over  eight 
years  to  keep  it.  Meanwhile  his  grandfather  died,  leaving  him  a 
small  property  worth  40^.  a  year,  which  he  was  still  kept  out  of  for 
want  of  a  small  sum  of  money  to  prove  his  right  to  it.  I  did  not 
understand  the  law  part  of  the  story,  but  undertook  to  get  some 
honest  lawyer  to  look  at  his  papers  and  give  him  advice  for  noth- 
ing. 

April  21. — I  feel  weaklier  every  day,  and  my  soul  also  is  sore 
vexed — Oh  how  long!  I  put  myself  in  an  omnibus,  being  unable 
to  walk,  and  was  carried  to  Islington  and  back  again.  What  a 
good  .shilling's-worth  of  exercise!  The  Angel  at  Islington!  It 
was  there  I  was  set  down  on  my  first  arrival  in  London,  and  Mr. 
C.  with  Edward  Irving  was  waiting  to  receive  me. 

The  past  Is  past,  and  gone  is  gone. 

May  29. — Old  Mrs.  D.  said  to  me  the  other  day  when  I  encoun- 
tered her  after  two  years,  'Yes,  ma'am,  my  daughter  is  dead:  only 
child,  house,  and  everything  gone  from  me;  and  I  assure  you  I 
stand  up  in  the  world  as  if  it  was  not  the  world  at  all  any  more.' 


88  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Mr.  B.  says  nine-lentbs  of  the  misery  of  human  life  proceeds  ac- 
cording to  his  observation  from  the  institution  of  marriage.  He 
should  say  from  the  demoralisation,  the  desecration,  of  the  institu- 
tion of  marriage,  and  then  I  should  cordially  agree  with  him. 

June  27. — Went  with  Geraldine  to  Hampstead. 

Various  passages  in  this  journal  seemed  to  require  explanation. 
Miss  Geraldine  Jewsbury,  who  was  Mrs.  Carlyle's  most  intimate 
friend,  was  the  only  person  living  who  could  give  it.  I  sent  her 
the  book.  Slie  returned  it  to  me  with  a  letter,  from  which  I  ex- 
tract the  following  passages: — 

'The  reading  has  been  like  the  calling  up  ghosts.  .  .  .  It  was 
a  very  bad  time  with  her  just  then.  No  one  but  herself  or  one 
constantly  with  her  knows  what  she  suffered  physically  as  well  as 
morally. 

'She  was  miserable:  more  abidingly  and  intensely  miserable 
than  words  can  utter.  The  misery  was  a  reality,  no  matter  whether 
her  imagiuation  made  it  or  not.  .  .  .  Mr.  C.  once  said  to  me 
of  her  that  she  had  the  deepest  and  tenderest  feelings,  but  narrow. 
Any  other  wife  would  have  laughed  at  Mr.  C.'s  bewitchment  with 
Lady  A. ;  but  to  her  there  was  a  complicated  aggravation  which 
made  it  very  hard  to  endure.  Lady  A.  was  admired  for  sayings 
and  doings  for  which  she  was  snubbed.  She  saw  through  Lady  A.'s 
little  ways  and  grande-dame  manners,  and  knew  what  they  were 
worth.  She  contrasted  them  with  the  daily,  hourly  endeavours  she 
was  making  that  Aw  life  should  be  as  free  from  hindrances  as  possi- 
ble. He  put  her  aside  for  his  work,  but  lingered  in  the  "  Primrose 
path  of  dalliance  "  for  the  sake  of  a  great  lady,  who  liked  to  have  a 
philosopher  in  chains.  Lady  A.  was  excessively  capricious  towards 
her,  and  made  her  feel  they  cared  more  about  Mm  than  about  her. 

'  She  was  never  allowed  to  visit  anywhere  but  at  the  Grange; 
and  the  mortifications  and  vexations  she  felt,  though  they  were 
often  and  often  self-made,  were  none  the  less  intolerable  to  her. 
At  first  she  was  charmed  with  Lady  A.,  but  soon  found  she  had  no 
real  hold  on  her,  nor  ever  could  or  would  have.  The  sufferings 
were  real,  intense,  and  at  times  too  grievous  to  be  borne.  C.  did 
not  understand  all  this,  and  only  felt  her  to  be  unreasonable. 

'  The  lines  on  which  her  character  was  laid  down  were  very 
grand,  but  the  result  was  blurred  and  distorted  and  confused. 

'  In  marrying  she  undertook  what  she  felt  to  be  a  grand  and 
noble  life  task:  a  task  which,  as  set  forth  by  himself,  touched  all 
that  was  noble  and  heroic,  and  inspired  her  imagination  from  its 
difficulty.  She  believed  in  him,  and  her  faith  was  unique.  No 
one  else  did.  Well,  but  she  was  to  be  the  companion,  friend, 
helpmate — her  own  gifts  were  to  be  cultivated  and  recognised  by 
him.  She  was  bright  and  beautiful,  with  a  certain  star-like  radi- 
ance and  grace.  She  had  devoted  to  him  her  life,  which  so  many 
other  men  had  desired  to  share.  She  had  gone  off  into  the  desert 
with  him.  She  had  taken  up  povertj',  obscurity,  hardship  even, 
cheerfully,  willingly,  and  with  an  enthusiasm  of  self-sacrifice,  on 
asking  to  be  allowed  to  minister  to  him.     The  offering  was  ac- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  89 

cepted,  but,  like  the  precious  thiugs  flung  by  Benvenuto  into  the 
furnace  when  his  statue  was  molten,  they  were  all  consumed  in 
the  flames;  and  he  was  so  intent  and  occupied  by  what  he  was 
bringing  forth  that  he  could  take  no  heed  of  her  individual  treas- 
ures. They  were  all  swallowed  up  in  the  great  whole.  In  her 
case  it  was  the  living  creature  in  the  midst  of  the  fire  which  felt 
and  suffered.     He  gave  her  no  human  help  nor  tenderness. 

'Bear  in  mind  that  her  inmost  life  was  solitary — no  tenderness, 
no  caresses,  no  loving  words;  nothing  out  of  which  one's  heart  can 
make  the  wine  of  life.  A  glacier  on  a  mountain  would  have  been 
as  human  a  companionship.  He  suffered  too;  but  he  put  it  all 
into  his  work.  She  had  onlj'  the  desolation  and  barrenness  of  hav- 
ing all  her  love  and  her  life  laid  waste.  Six  years  she  lived  at 
Craigenputtock,  and  she  held  out.  She  had  undertaken  a  task, 
and  she  knew  that,  whether  recognised  or  not,  she  did  help  him. 
Her  strong  persistent  will  kept  her  up  to  the  task  of  pain.  Then 
they  came  back  to  the  world,  and  the  strain  told  on  her.  She  did 
not  falter  from  her  purpose  of  helping  and  shielding  him,  but  she 
became  warped. — Geraldike  E.  Jewsbuey.' 

LETTER  164. 
Mrs.  Bussell,  TJiornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  July  3, 1858. 
Dearest  Mrs.  Russell, — Your  letter  quite  warmed  my  heart,  and 
gave  me  a  pull  towards  Scotland,  stronger  than  I  had  yet  felt.  I 
think  it  in  the  highest  degree  unlikely,  and  certainly  it  will  not  be 
my  own  fault  if  I  am  there  without  seeing  you.  But  we  have  no 
programme  positively  laid  out  yet  for  the  summer,  or  rather  the 
autumn.  Mr.  C.  always  hithers  and  thithcrs  in  a  weary  intermin- 
able way,  before  he  can  make  up  his  miud  what  he  would  like 
most  to  do.  And  so,  as  I  don't  like  wandering  in  uncertainties, 
•with  a  net  of  'ifs.'and  'buts,'and  'perhapses,'  and  'possibles,' 
and  '  probables '  about  my  feet,  I  have  got  into  the  way  of  standing 
aside,  and  postponing  my  own  plans,  till  he  has  finally  got  to  some 
conclusion.  His  present  '  most  probably '  is  that  he  will  go  to  his 
sister's,  at  a  farm  within  a  few  miles  of  Annan,  and  '  enjoy  perfect 
solitude  for  a  time.'  I  mean,  in  that  case,  to  stream  off  after  'ray 
own  sweet  will;'  as  he  would  not  need  me  with  him  at  the  Gill, 
and  indeed  there  would  be  no  room  for  me  there,  and  I  should  only 
complicate  his  case.  When  he  has  settled  to  go  there,  or  anywher* 
else  where  I  am  not  needed,  I  shall  proceed  to  scheme  out  a  pro- 
gramme for  myself,  and  I  want  to  go  to  Scotland  too,  and  I  want 
to  see  you,  and  to  see  my  cousins  in  Fife,  and  mj^  old  people  at 
Haddington.    But  I  do  not  take  up  all  that  practically  at  the  pres- 


40  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

ent  stage  of  the  business,  iu  case  he  take  some  new  thought,  with 
which  mj'  wislies  could  not  so  easily  combine.  I  don't  see  any 
hope  of  his  quitting  London  anyhow  till  the  beginning  of  August, 
at  soonest,  which  is  a  pity;  the  present  month  would  be  passed  so 
much  more  pleasantly  in  the  green  country  than  here,  where  every- 
thing seems  working  up  to  spontaneous  combustion.  I  was  think- 
ing the  other  night,  at  '  the  most  magnificent  ball  of  the  season,' 
how  much  better  I  should  like  to  see  people  making  hay,  than  all 
these  ladies  iu  laces  and  diamonds,  waltzing!  One  grows  so  sick 
of  diamonds,  and  bare  shoulders,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  after  a 
while.  It  is  the  old  story  of  the  Irishman  put  into  a  Sedan  chair 
without  a  bottom:  'If  it  weren't  for  the  honour  of  the  thing,  I 
might  as  well  have  walked! ' 

I  shall  write,  dear  Mrs.  Russell,  whenever  I  know  for  certain 
what  we  are  going  to  do.  And,  as  I  have  great  faith  in  the  mag- 
netic power  of  wishes,  T  pray  you  to  wish  in  the  meantime  that  I 
may  come;  as  I,  ou  my  side,  shall  not  fail  to  wish  it  strongly. 

I  am  just  going  off  this  burning  day  to— sit  for  my  picture !  rather 
late!  But  I  have  a  friend,  who  has  constituted  herself  a  portrait- 
painter,  and  she  has  a  real  genius  for  the  business;  and  Ruskin  told 
her  she  must  paint  a  portrait  with  no  end  of  pains,  must  give  it 
'twenty  sittings  at  the  least.'  And  I  suppose  she  thinks  I  am  the 
most  patient  woman  she  knows,  and  may  give  her  these  twenty 
sittings,  out  of  desire  for  her  improvement.  As  she  is  a  clever, 
charming  creature,  I  don't  feel  all  the  horror  that  might  be  expected 
of  my  prospect. 

My  kind  regards  to  your  husband  and  father.  i 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  Cablyle. 

LETTER  165. 

After  Addiscombe  and  three  months  more  of  deadly  wrestling 
with  Friedrich  and  the  mud  elements,  we  went  to  the  Grange  for 
Christmas;  stayed  for  several  weeks.  Company  at  first  aristocra- 
tic and  select  (Lord  Lansdowne  and  Robert  Lowe);  then  miscellan- 
eous, shitting,  chiefly  of  the  scientific  kind  (.lowett,  and  an  Oxon- 
ian or  two  among  them),  some  of  whom  have  left  more  than  the 
shadow  of  an  impression  on  me.  Our  last  Grange  Christmas,  such 
as  it  proved,  under  presidency  of  that  great  lady.  We  returned  in 
January,  both  of  us.  I  at  least  much  broken  by  this  long  course 
of  gaieties,  resumed  work  for  18.j6,  and  with  dreary  obstinacy  kept 
pushing,  pushing.  The  intolerable  heats  of  July  forced  us  north 
again.  Ride  to  Edinburgh  in  the  Lady  Asliburton's  royal  carriage, 
•which  took  fire,  and  at  Newcastle  had  to  be  abandoned,  dustiest 


JAl^E  WELSH  CARLYLE.  41 

and  painfullest  of  rides,  regardless  of  expense,  and  yet  actually 
taking  fire  and  falling  flat  like  Dagon  of  the  Philistines.  Nothing 
good  in  it  but  the  admirable  bearing  of  that  great  lady  under  its 
badness.  The  Ashburtons  off  towards  Ross-shire  next  morning. 
I  under  promise  to  follow  thither  by-and-by.  Towards  Auchtertool 
Manse  we  two,  where  after  some  days  I  left  my  dear  woman  and 
took  refuge  with  my  sister  Mary  at  the  Gill,  near  Annan,  seeking 
and  finding  perfect  solitude,  kindness,  and  silence  (the  first  time 
there)  for  a  good  few  weeks. 

Scotsbrig  ten  miles  off,  but  that  was  now  shut  to  me.  Poor 
brother  John  had  tragically  lost  his  wife;  was  much  cast  down, 
and  had  now,  most  unwisely  as  I  thought,  filled  Scotsbrig  with  his 
orphaned  step-sons — three  mischievous  boys,  whom  to  this  day 
none  of  us  could  ever  get  to  like.  Scotsbrig  accessible  only  on  a 
riding  call  at  this  time. — T.C. 

T.  Carlyle,  The  Gill. 

Auchtertool:  July  29, 1866. 
I  am  glad  that  all  has  gone  so  well  with  you  hitherto.  '  A  good 
beginning  makes  a  good  ending,'  and  we  have  both  begun  more 
prosperously  than  could  have  been  anticipated.  Even  the  lost 
clogs  are  quite  well  supplied,  I  find,  by  the  things  I  bought,  and 
which  must  have  been  made  for  the  wife  of  Goliath  of  Gath;  and 
they  have  got  me  a  new  box  of  Seidlitz  powders,  and  new  chloro- 
form from  Kirkcaldy.  I  have  needed  to  take  neither,  '  thanks 
God.'  For  the  rest  all  goes  well  with  me  also;  only  no  seabathing 
has  been  practicable  yet,  nor  does  it  look  as  if  it  would  ever  be 
practicable  here ;  the  dog-cart  having  many  ether  more  important 
demands  on  it,  as  well  as  old  John  and  Walter  himself.  There  are 
preachings  going  on  just  now,  at  Avhich  Walter  has  to  assist.  Last 
Sunday  his  place  was  supplied  at  his  own  church  by  a  grey-headed 
preacher  called  Douglas,  who  flattered  himself  he  had  been  at 
school  with  you;  but  the  Thomas  Carlyle  he  had  been  school-fel- 
low to  'had  reddish  hair,  and  a  sharp  face.'  I  am  never  done 
thanking  heaven  for  the  freshness,  and  cleanness,  and  quietness 
into  which  I  have  plumped  down;  and  for  my  astonishingly  com- 
fortable bed,  and  the  astonishing  kindness  and  good  humour  that 
wraps  me  about  like  an  eider-down  quilt!  It  is  next  thing  to  be- 
ing at  Templand!  I  could  almost  imitate  old  '  Kelty,'  '  and  fall  to 
writing  '  A  Visit  to  my  Relations  in  the  Country,'  followed  up  by 
'  Waters  of  Comfort '  in  verse!  Of  course  I  am  sad  at  times,  at  all 
times  sad  as  death,  but  that  1  am  used  to,  and  don't  mind.     And 

>  Old  Bcribbling  governess  person. 


4d  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

for  the  sickness,  it  is  quite  gone  since  the  morning  I  left  Chelsea; 
and  I  am  as  content,  for  the  time  being,  as  it  were  possible  for  me 
to  be  anywhere  on  the  face  of  this  changeful  earth. 

Of  course  I  will  never  be  '  within  wind '  of  Scotsbrig  without  go- 
ing to  see  Jamie  and  Isabella,  who  have  treated  me  always  with  the 
utmost  kindness.  If  I  had  been  their  own  sister  they  could  not 
have  made  me  feel  more  at  liome  than  I  have  always  done  under 
their  roof.     I  never  forget  kindness,  nor,  alas!  unkiudness  either! 

My  plans  are  still  in  the  vague;  I  feel  no  haste  to  '  see  my  way.' 
My  cousins  seem  to  expect  and  wish  me  to  make  a  long  visit,  and 
I  am  not  at  all  likely  to  take  to  feeling  dull  nowadays  beside  people 
■who  really  care  for  me,  and  have  true  hearts,  and  plenty  of  natural 
sense.  Besides  I  have  two  invitations  to  dinner  for  next  week! 
and  have  made  acquaintance  with  several  intelligent  people.  Mean- 
while I  have  written  to  my  aunt  Elizabeth,  who  I  believe  is  alone 
just  now  at  Morningside,  and  also  to  Miss  Donaldson,  to  announce 
my  proximity;  and  it  will  depend  on  their  answers  whether  I  pay 
them  a  few  hours'  visit  from  here,  or  a  longer  one  when  I  leave 
here  altogether. 

Give  my  kind  regards  to  Mary  and  the  rest.  I  am  sure  you  will 
want  for  no  attention  she  can  show  you,  or  she  must  be  greatly 
changed  from  the  kind  soul  I  knew  her  at  Craig  o'  Putta. 

Faithfully  yours, 

Jane  W.  C. 

LETTER  166. 

My  Jeannie  has  come  across  to  Craigenvilla  (fond  reminiscences 
of  Craigenputtock!),  her  aunts'  new  garden  residence  of  their  own 
in  Edinburgh,  Morningside  quarter,  same  neat  little  place  where 
the  surviving  two  yet  live  (1869).  They  had  all  gone  deep  into 
conscious  'devotion,'  religious  philanthropy,  prayer  meetings, 
&c.  &c.,  but  were  felt  to  be  intrinsically  honest-minded  women, 
with  a  true  affection  for  their  niece,  however  pagan! 

Old  Betty's  '  one  child,  a  promising  young  man,  who  had  grown 
to  be  a  journeyman  watchmaker,  was  struck  with  paralysis;  pow- 
erless absolutely,  all  but  the  head,  in  which  sad  state  his  unweari- 
able,  unconquerable  mother  watched  over  him  night  and  day  till 
he  died.— T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  The  Oill. 

Craigenvilla,  Morningside,  Edinburgh:  Thursday,  Aug.  7, 1856. 
Heaven  and  earth!    I  have  been  watching  these  three  days  for 
an  hour's  quiet  to  write  in,  but  one  would  say  there  had  been  a  con- 

>  Old  Haddington  nurse. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  48 

Bpiracy  of  things  iu  general  to  prevent  me.  The  day  before  yester- 
day I  bathed  at  Kirkcaldy,  and  walked  to  Auchtertool  after,  and 
the  fatigue  was  too  much,  and  I  was  up  to  nothing  but  lying  on  the 
sofa  all  the  evening,  which  delayed  my  packing  till  yesterday 
morning;  and  I  got  up  at  half  after  six,  to  leave  time  for  a  letter, 
and  it  was  not  till  '  prayers "'  were  over,  and  the  breakfast  ready, 
that  I  was  ready  to  sit  down.  Immediately  after  breakfast  the 
dog-cart  came  round  to  take  me  to  the  half  after  eleven  boat.  I 
tried  writing  again  at  Betty's;  I  could  do  nothing  effectually  ex- 
cept or}'.  She  was  so  glad  over  me,  so  motherlike — and  that  poor 
dying  lad,  and  her  white  worn  face,  and  compressed  lips;  and  the 
smile  far  more  touching  than  any  tears!  Oh,  it  was  so  dreadfully 
sad,  and  yet  her  kisses,  and  the  loving  words  about  my  father  and 
mother,  made  me  so  happy!  Then,  when  I  got  here  to  tea,  my 
aunts  were  so  unexpectedly  tender  and  glad  over  me.  I  tried  writ- 
ing again  in  my  bedroom,  but  it  was  lighted  with  gas,  and  I  found 
I  could  not  put  the  light  out  too  soon  to  save  my  life.  This  morn- 
ing, again,  I  got  up  at  half-past  six  to  write  to  you;  but  I  had  pa- 
per and  ink,  and  no  pen!  so  went  to  bed  again,  and  lay  till  half- 
past  seven,  amidst  a  tearing  rumble  of  carts,  that  seemed  to  drive 
over  my  brain. 

I  go  home  '  to-night;  and  shall  be  there  till  Monday  or  Tuesday 
(address  Sunny  Bank  till  Monday,  if  you  write),  then  back  here, 
and  I  fear  I  cannot  avoid  staying  a  few  days  next  time,  in  spite  of 
the  sleeping  difficulties;  but  they  are  so  kind,  my  aunts.  By  the 
end  of  the  next  week,  an3'how,  I  hope  to  get  to  Auchtertool  again. 
I  will  write  from  Haddington — this  steel  pen  is  too  dreadful. 

Yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  167. 
T.  Garlyle,  The  Gill. 

Sunny  Bank,  Haddington :  Friday,  Aug.  9,  185C. 
I  got  here  last  night  about  seven.  The  carriage  was  waiting  for 
me  at  the  station,  but  this  time  empty;  no  kind  Miss  Kate  in  it. 
We  came  in  at  the  back  gate;  and  when  we  turned  round  the 
house  I  saw  Miss  Jess,  or  rather  I  saw  a  face,  or  rather  eyes  strain- 
ing at  the  dining-room  window  with  a  look  I  shall  remember  while 
I  live.     The  next  moment  I  was  in  her  arms;  and  then  my  'god- 

1  To  Haddington,  to  Misses  Donaldson  (eldest  of  them  her  'godmother,'  as 
wft8  always  remembered). 


44  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

mother'  tottered  blindly  forward,  and  took  me  in  hers;  and  the 
two  dear  old  women  clasped  and  kissed  and  wept  over  me  both  to- 
gether, and  called  out  'Jeannie,  Jeaunie!'  'Oh,  my  own  bairn!' 
'  My  angel '  (!  !)  and  ever  so  many  beautiful  names.  Mrs.  Donald- 
son and  Miss  Eliza  '  had  kindly  retired  to  their  own  room,  that  the 
meeting  might  transact  itself  in  peace.  A  beautiful  tea  was  wait- 
ing on  the  table — all  so  pretty  and  calm  and  good!  It  looked  like 
one  of  those  entertainments  spread  for  the  good  boys  that  '^went 
out  to  poos  their  fortunes  '  iu  my  godmother's  fairy  tales;  and  my 
godmother  herself,  like  the  good  fairy,  so  little,  oh,  so  little,  she 
has  grown!  and  her  face  so  little  and  round,  and  so  sweet! 
And  Miss  Jess  has  been  transformed  by  Kate's  death  into  an  active, 
self -forgetting  providence  for  the  older  and  blinder  sister.  She 
waits  upon  her,  cuts  her  bread  into  mouth fuls,  is  gentle  and 
thoughtful  for  her,  reads  aloud  to  her  (Miss  Donaldson  tells  me), 
she  herself  being  about  eighty;  and  instead  of  complaints  about  her 
own  ailments,  it  is  all  now  '  Poor  Jean  ! '  and  the  loss  she  had  in 
Kate.  The  hearts  of  these  two  old  women  are  as  fresh  as  gowans. 
It  is  like  being  pretty  well  up  towards  heaven,  being  here.  And 
what  a  house!  so  quiet  and  clean,  and  so  perfectly  the  same  as  I 
knew  it  thirty  years  ago!  Tlie  same  papers,  the  same  carpets,  the 
same  everj^thing  that  I  made  acquaintance  with  when  I  was  a  child, 
in  perfect  condition  still.  I  expect  to  sleep  in  my  great  comfort- 
able four-posted  bed  now  that  the  first  exciting  night  is  over,  and 
shall  stay  till  the  middle  of  next  week,  I  think.  My  aunts  were 
extremely  kind,  and  expect  me  to  make  them  a  long  visit  on  my  re- 
turn; but  that  is  not  possible,  on  account  of  the  gas  in  my  bedroom 
(at  Morningside)  and  the  public  road  passing  the  window,  where 
carts  grind  from  three  in  the  morning.  Besides  that  I  like  being 
at  Auchtertool,  and  they  want  me  there  for  all  the  time  I  can  stay. 
Everybody  is  so  kind  to  me — oh,  so  kind  !  that  I  often  burst  out 
crying  with  pure  thankfulness  to  them  all. 

Betty  said  yesterday,  speaking  of  tlie  photograph  I  had  sent  her, 
the  one  with  the  bonnet  and  the  dog,  and  which,  together  with 
yours,  she  has  got  handsomely  framed  and  keeps  in  a  pocket-hand- 
kerchief in  a  drawer!  '  It  has  a  look  o'  ye,  but  I  dinna  ken  what 
that  white  thing  is  aboot  the  face !'  '  That  is  the  white  roses  of  my 
bonnet,  Betty.'  'A  weel  !  a  weel  !  May  be  sae!  but  as  ye  wur 
kindly  sending  me  yer  pictur,  dear,  I  wud  hae  liket  better  ye  had 
gotten't  dune  wi'  yer  bare  pow ! '    I  promised  her  one  with  the  bare 

>  The  famed  Cantab,  doctor's  (Dr.  Donaldson)  mother  and  sister. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  45 

pow,  but  said,  '  You  know,  it  is  a  shame  for  me  to  be  without  a  cap 
or  a  bonnet  at  this  age.'  '  Ay,  ay,  I  dar'  say,  it's  no  very  richt;  but 
ye  ken,  bairu,  ye  wasue  brocbt  up  to  due  just  \\\ie  ither  folk;  at  a' 
rates  I'll  hae  the  bare  pow  if  ye  please;  though  I  wudua  be  thocht 
ower  greedy!'  Dear,darling  old  Betty!  She  gets  no  rest  night  or 
day  for  that  poor  spectre  of  a  son;  and  it  looks  to  me  he  may  live  for 
years  in  this  suffering,  hopeless  state.  And  the  husband,  though  a 
good  enough  man  in  his  way — sober  and  laborious,  and  all  that — has 
not  the  refinement  or  the  spirituality  of  Betty,  and  can  be  but  a  sorry 
comforter  to  her  in  her  sore  trouble.  She  called  me  back  as  I  was 
coming  away  yesterday  to  say,  '  Dear,  wull  ye  tell  Miss  Donal'son, 
for  I  am  sure  it  'ill  please  her  to  hear  it,  that  the  Bish'p  '  is  rale 
gude  to  us,  puir  auld  manny ! ' 

I  had  two  bathes  in  the  sea;  neither  did  me  anj^  good — the  first 
a  great  deal  of  harm,  by  ill  luck.  Just  the  day  after  I  wrote — I  had 
had  no  bathing — Walter  took  me  to  Aberdour;  and  I  was  to  partly 
undress,  and  get  a  bathing  gown  at  Aberdour  House,  where  Mrs. 
Major  Liddle  lives.  She  gave  me  the  key  of  the  park,  that  Maggie 
and  I  might  walk  through  it  to  the  shore;  but  the  key  proved  a 
wrong  one,  and,  as  there  was  no  time  to  return  for  the  right  key, 
I  proposed  to  Maggie  to  leap  from  the  top  of  the  wall,  which  was 
only  high  on  the  off-side.  She  positively  declined;  and  we  were  at 
a  fix,  when  a  working  man  passing,  I  called  to  him,  and  asked  him 
to  catch  us  in  leaping.  He  took  me  between  his  big  thumbs,  one 
on  my  left  side,  and  the  other,  alas!  on  mj'  right  breast — that  un- 
lucky breast  I  am  always  hurting!  There!  I  thought  to  mj^seif,  as 
I  found  my  feet,  '  There  is  something  to  serve  me  for  six  weeks 
again ! ' 

I  suffered  a  good  deal  for  the  first  two  or  three  days,  and  lost  my 
just- recovered  sleep.  It  (the  pain)  is  going  off,  however,  though 
still  a  nuisance,  especially  when  I  uie  my  right  arm.  Remember 
that  in  estimating  tlie  virtue  of  this  very  long  letter. 

I  inclose  a  note  from  Lady  A.,  which  was  forwarded  to  me  here 
this  morning. 

I  am  not  sure  where  to  address;  but,  as  one  letter  was  sent  to 
Scotsbrig,  I  had  best  send  this  one  to  the  Gill. 

Yours  faithfully, 

J.  W.  C. 

*  Terrot;  the  Donaldsons  were  Episcopal. 


46  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

LETTER  168. 
T.  Carlyle,  The  Gill. 

Craigeuvilla,  Morningside :  Tuesday,  August  19,  1856. 
Oh,  dear  me!  I  am  back  from  Haddington ;  and  a  sad  day  yester- 
day was.  The  people  at  Haddington  seem  all  to  grow  so  good  and 
kind  as  they  grow  old.  That  isn't  the  way  with  us  in  the  south. 
It  wasn't  the  Miss  Donaldsons  only  that  made  much  of  me,  and 
cried  over  me  at  parting,  as  if  I  were  '  their  own  bairn.'  Mr.  How- 
den,  Mrs.  Howden,  and  all  of  them  still  alive,  that  linew  my  father 
and  mother,  were  in  tears;  and  poor  old  Mr.  Lea,'  who  has  other- 
wise lost  his  wits,  said,  '  Oh,  Jeannie,  Jeannie,  when  you  come 
again  you  won't  find  me  here!'  and  then  lie  said  angrily  to  Miss 
Brown,  '  Are  you  going  to  let  that  lassie  go  away  by  herself?  send 
the  Man  with  her.'  (TlieMan,  meaning  his  keejwr.)  It  would  have 
touched  you  to  the  heart  to  see  poor  Jess  Donaldson  daundering 
about,  opening  drawers  and  presses  to  find  something  to  give  me. 
It  was  her  chief  eniployraeut  all  the  time  I  was  there.  One  day  it 
was  an  Indian  shawl;  the  next  a  real  lace  veil;  the  next  a  diamond 
ring,  and  so  on,  till  the  last  hour,  when  after  my  boxes  were  all 
packed,  she  suddenly  bethought  her  that  I  used  to  like  old  china, 
and  took  me  privately  to  the  press  that  contained  her  long  prized 
Indian  china,  and  bade  me  take  as  much  of  it  as  I  cared  to  carry; 
and  then,  when  I  told  her  my  boxes  were  full,  she  said,  '  Take  my 
work-basket,  dear,  to  pack  it  in;  I  shall  never  need  it  any  more.' 
But  inanimate  objects  were  not  all  that  I  brought  from  home  with 
me.  I  brought  two  live  plants  in  flower-pots,  one  out  of  our  own 
garden,  and  two  live — oh,  gracious!  I  picture  your  dismay! — 'what- 
ever' will  you  say  or  sing? — two  live — caca-naries!  They  were 
born  in  ova-  own  house,  the  darlings;  and  poor  Mrs.  Howden  made 
with  her  own  hands  a  black  silk  bag  to  draw  over  the  cage,  and 
trimmed  it  with  braid.  You  may  still  hope  that  they  shall  get  eaten 
by  my  aunt's  cat,  or  my  cousin's  terrier,  or,  at  least,  by  the  cat  or 
Nero  at  home.  '  But  I  hope  better  things,  though  I  thus  speak.' ' 
At  all  events,  they  shan't  plague  you  the  least  in  the  world;  and  K 
was  a  iuck  for  me  yesterday  in  coming  away  that  I  had  these  live 
things  to  look  after. 

1  A  kind  of  ex-military  haberdasher  (I  think)— shop  near  the  entrance  to  her 
father's  house. 
'  Scotch  preaching  phrase. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  47 

Aren't  j^ou  a  spoiled  child,  ^^■itllout  the  childness  and  the  spoiling, 
to  go  and  write  in  that  plaintive,  solemn  way  about  'help  of  some 
connexions  of  Jane's  in  Glasgow,'  as  if  you  were  a  desolate  orphan 
'  thrown  out  sangfroid^  to  charity.'  If  you  weren't  satisfied  with 
the  f^w^yougot,  why  couldn't  you  have  said  so  straightforwardly, 
and  told  me  you  wished  me  to  choose  another?  But  I  was  to  do  it 
only  '  ii  I  wanted  a  lark,'  or  '  if  it  didn't  satisfy  me,'  &c.,  &c.  You 
know  very  well  that  if  you  had  told  me  to  go  fifty  miles  to  buy  your 
dressing-gown,  and  that  j'ou  were  'depending  on  me  for  doing  it,' 
I  shouldn't  have  hesitated  a  minute,  and  it  could  have  been  done  now 
when  I  am  on  the  spot  without  the  least  trouble,  had  you  so  chosen. 
But  if  it  was  merely  to  '  please  my  own  taste  '  that  I  was  to  go  into 
Edinburgh  from  Haddington  and  back  again,  or  to  give  myself  'a 
lark,'  I  was  right  to  decline.  You  have  no  notion  what  a  disagree- 
able train  that  is;  both  in  going  and  coming  you  have  to  wait  at 
Long  Niddrj'  from  half  an  hour  to  an  hour,  in  consequence  of  the 
irregularity  of  the  London  trains,  which  stop  there.  The  express 
don't  stop.  Yesterday  I  had  to  wait  an  hour  all  but  three  minutes. 
You  will  be  glad  to  hear  as  a  symptom  that  an  enterprising  man  is 
starting  anew  the  old  Haddington  stage,  to  go  twice  a  week  at  the 
same  price  as  the  railway,  for  the  comfort  of  passengers  who  have 
not  temper  to  stand  this  irregular  waiting. 

My  aunts  received  me  back  with  the  heartiest  welcome;  and  I 
don't  think  it  will  be  possible  for  me  to  get  back  to  Auchtertool 
this  week  without  offending  them.  But  I  have  changed  my  room 
for  one  to  the  back,  left  vacant  by  Ann,  who  is  in  Dumfriesshire, 
and  it  is  as  quiet  as  Cheyne  Row,  except  for  a  very  singular  water- 
cistern  that  runs  without  a  minute's  interruption  day  and  night. 

'  Men  shall  come,  and  men  shall  go, 
But  thou  go'st  on  for  everl ' 

It  is  only  a  gentle  sound,  however,  like  the  flow  of  a  brook;  and  it 
rather  helped  me  to  sleep  last  night  than  otherwise. 

By  the  way,  the  trash  of  things  that  bit  you  so  must  have  been 
the  new  insect  called  '  harvest  bugs,'  or  '  gooseberry  lice,'  imported, 
they  say,  in  some  American  plants  about  twenty  years  ago;  they 
last  for  six  weeks,  and  are  most  tormenting.  Mrs.  Donaldson  was 
covered,  as  with  chicken-pox,  from  them;  and  I  finally  was  dread- 
fully bitten,  but  got  off  easier  as  I  resolutely  refused  to  scratch  the 
places;  they  took  me  chiefly  on  the  legs,  of  all  places. 

Yours  faithfully. 

'  Not '  de  tang,''  &c.  {supra). 


48  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  169. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Gill 

Craigenvilla:  Saturday,  August  23,  1856. 

Your  letter  of  yesterday  arriving  at  the  same  time  with  one  from 
my  aunt  Ann  (away  in  Dumfriesshire)  to  Grace,  just  as  we  were 
going  to  breakfast,  threw  us  into  such  a  little  flutter  of  excitement 
that  we  all  fell  quite  unconsciously  into  sin.  I  was  reading  my  let- 
ter, and  had  taken  a  sip  or  two  of  tea  and  bitten  into  my  soda-scone, 
and  the  others  had  done  the  same,  when  Grace  suddenly  shrieked 
out  like  'a  mad,''  'Mercy!  we  have  forgotten  the  blessing!'  I 
started  on  my  chair,  and  (to  such  a  pitch  of  compliance  with  '  coos- 
tom  in  part '  have  I  already  reached)  dropped  instinctively  the  mor- 
sel out  of  my  mouth  into  my  hand,  till  I  should  see  what  steps 
were  to  be  taken  for  making  our  peace.  But  the  case  was  judged 
past  remedy,  and  the  breakfast  allowed  to  proceed  unblessed. 

I  was  regretting  to  Betty  that  my  aunts  should  live  in  such  a  fuss 
of  religion.  'My  dear!'  said  she,  'they  were  idle— plenty  to  live 
on,  and  nocht  to  do  for't;  they  might  hae  ta'en  to  waur;  so  we  maun 
just  thole  them,  an  no  compleen.'"  For  the  rest,  they  are  more 
affectionate  to  myself  than  I  ever  found  them  before— really  kind, 
almost  to  tenderness,  especially  Elizabeth,  who  seems  much  soft- 
ened by  her  sad  accident.  I  am  glad  I  stayed,  for  henceforth  I 
shall  feel  to  have  aunts,  which  is  a  gain  to  one  who  has  no  brothers 
or  sisters,  and  whose  'many  friends'  are  something  like  the  hare's. 
At  the  same  time  I  shall  be  well  pleased  to  return  to  Auchtertool  on 
Monday,  where  also  they  are  adorably  kind  to  me,  and  where  I 
liave  more  room  to  turn  in,  in  all  ways. 

I  have  no  friends  in  the  north  except  Mr.  Gillespie  of  Ardachy, 
who  I  dare  say  would  give  me  a  welcome.  But  it  would  be  a  deal 
too  far  to  travel  for  any  satisfaction  1  should  get  out  of  him,  even 
were  there  no  unknown  wife  in  the  case.  I  should  prefer  being 
'well  let  alone '  in  Fife,  till  the  time  of  our  return  to  Chelsea,  with 
just  a  week  or  so  taken  for  Dumfriesshire.  There  they  won't  weary 
of  me  either,  which  is  a  main  ingredient  in  my  contentment.  If  I 
want  to  '  vaary  the  scliane '  ^  a  little,  I  may  go  a  few  days  to  Miss 

*  '  A  mad,'  Mazzini's. 

« ^'  They  might  have  taken  to  waur,'  wise  Betty  1    This  was  never  forgotten. 
» '  Vaary  the  schane, '  imitation  of  grandfather  Walter— sM»m  Reminiscences, 
vol.  iL 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  40 

Fergus,  who  has  returned  to  Kirkcaldy,  and  sent  me  a  kindly  ex- 
pressed invitation  for  'along  visit.'  She  does  not  mention  your 
name,  as  indeed  was  natural — considering,  Thomas  Erskine  also 
invites  us  both  to  Liulathen,  and  understands  you  to  have  written 
that  you  would  come. 

I  went  to  call  at  poor  Captain  Paterson's  (the  house  is  close  by 
here),  and  saw  the  Patersous  '  and  Mrs.  Stirling,  who  went  home 
yesterday,  and  'would  write  to  me.'  I  should  not  much  disUke 
going  with  you  to  Linlathen,  if  you  take  it  on  the  way  to  the  High- 
lands; but  I  would  rather  stay  quietly  with  my  own  people.     

,  too,  has  sent  me  an  affectionate  letter  about  coming  to 

Castle;  but,  though  in  an  affectionate  mood  when  she  asked  me  to 
come,  her  mood  might  change  by  the  tiyie  I  went.     And,  on  the 

whole,  I  am  not  drawn  towards Castle,  but  '  quite  the  contrary.' 

'  The  honour  of  the  thing  '  looks  too  mean,  and  scraggy,  and  icy  a 
motive,  to  make  me  go  a  foot  length,  or  trouble  myself  the  least  in 
the  world,  with  all  those  tears  and  kisses  I  brought  away  from  Had- 
dington, still  moist  and  warm  on  my  heart,  tears  and  kisses  be- 
stowed on  me  for  the  sake  of  my  dead  father  and  mother. 

I  have  just  been  interrupted  by  a  touching  visit  from  Mrs.  And- 
erson (Miss  Grove),*  who  has  been  invalided  with  her  spine  for  ten 
years.  She  was  carried  in  by  her  husband,  and  laid  on  the  sofa; 
a  sad,  grey,  resigned-looking,  suffering  woman.  But  the  husband 
so  gentle  and  attentive  to  her,  that  there  was  a  certain  comfort  in 
looking  at  them.  I  have  an  engagement  to  Betty,  who  will  have 
curds  and  cream  waiting  for  me,  and  I  must  go  now.  I  am  to  dine 
out  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  with  Miss  Hamilton  (of  Gladsmuir), 
who  asked  Grace,  too. 

I  always  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  met  at  the  Liddells,  in  Fife,  Mr. 
William  Swan,  and  that  I  made  him  a  pretty  little  speech  about 
'  your  enduring  remembrance  of  his  father's  and  mother's  kindness 
to  you,'  on  which  account  I  begged  to  shake  hands  with  him, 
which  had  the  greatest  success.  He  was  so  pleased  that  Walter  fol- 
lowed up  my  advances  by  inviting  him  to  a  dinner-party  at  the 
Manse,  and  there  I  presented  him  with  your  photograph,  which  he 
called  '  a  treasure.'  So  fat  a  man  one  rarely  sees,  but  he  looks  kind, 
and  has  tlie  character  of  being  'most  benevolent,'  and  he  evidently 
had  a  deep  affection  for  his  parents. 

1  'Captain  Paterson,'  Erskine's  brother-in-law.  Mrs.  Stirling  is  Erskine's 
widow  sister  and  lady  house-manager. 

' '  Miss  Grove,'  once  a  young  Haddington  friend  and  loved  protegie,  being 
English,  and  a  stianger. 
H.— 3 


50  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Also  I  have  a  strange  story  to  tell  you  about  Samuel  Brown's ' 
illness;  but  that  must  lie  over,  or  I  shall  miss  the  omnibus. 
Good  luck  to  the  new  clothes. 

Yours  ever  faithfully, 

Jane  W.  Cabltle. 

LETTER  170. 

'Infants  weeping  in  the  porch.' 

'  Vagitus  et  ingens, 
Infantumque  anirase  flentes  in  limine  piimo.' 

Inclosures  in  this  letter  from  poor  Nero  and  servant  Anne. 
This  Anne,  who  had  continued  and  did  still  for  several  years,  was 
an  elderly  cockney  specjmen  (mother  still  in  Holborn),  punctual, 
rational,  useful,  though  a  little  selfish  and  discontented. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Gill. 

Auchtertool,  Bedroom:  Friday,  August  29. 1866. 
There!  I  have  put  my  foot  in  it!  I  was  well  to  a  wonder;  hadn't 
h;j«d  one  hour  of  my  sickness,  nor  one  wholly  sleepless  night  since 
I  left  Chelsea;  and  the  idea  must  needs  take  me,  that  Sunday  I  was 
in  Edinburgh,  to  have  out  my  humour  to  hear  Dr.  Guthrie.  And 
so  for  two  hours  I  was  slowly  simmered,  as  in  one  of  Soyer's 
patent  stewpans  (the  crush  to  hear  him  being  quite  as  great  in 
Edinburgh  as  in  London).  And  then  I  had  to  walk  to  Morning- 
side  in  a  cutting  east  wind ;  and  then,  at  the  far  end,  a  miserable 
refection  of  weak  tea  and  tough  toast  by  way  of  dinner,  when  I 
needed  to  have  stimulants  '  thrown  into  the  system '(my  aunts  al- 
ways dining  on  tea  on  Sundays,  that  the  servant  may  attend  both 
morning  and  afternoon  '  services ').  The  consequence  of  all  this 
bad  management  was  a  cold  on  my  nerves,  which  the  crossing'' 
next  day,  and  the  blowy  drive  in  the  dog-cart,  brought  to  a  height. 
And  I  have  been  two  whole  days  in  bed  '  suffering  martyrs '  (as 
poor  Paulet  used  to  say) ;  and  am  still  very  poorly,  though  to-day  I 
can  sit  up  and  write,  as  you  see.  Indeed,  last  night  I  never  once 
closed  my  eyes.  Nothing  could  be  more  ill-timed  than  this  illness, 
two  dinner-parties  having  gone  off  here  in  the  meantime  to  my 
honour  and  glory;  and  'gone  off  without  effect,' so  far  as  I  was 
concerned.    Mr.  Peter  Swan  (the  other  brother)  was  at  the  yester- 

*  '  Samuel  Brown,'  doctor  of  great  promise  once;  poor  yoimg  man  killed  in 
Edinburgh  by  too  much  kindness  1  (far  worse  than  none,  if  blind  both.) 
2  Of  the  Frith. 


JANE  WELSH  CAELYLE.  51 

day  dinner;  Walter  thinking,  after  my  speech  to  the  youbger  Swan, 
that  he  could  not  be  too  hospitable  to  that  family.  Poor  Walter! 
his  poor  little  stipend  must  be  dreadfully  perplexed  to  meet  all  the 
demands  his  munificent  spirit  makes  on  it. 

Besides  these  dinner-parties,  we  have  a  house  choke  full.  Jean- 
nie  and  her  hi^sbaud  come  over  to  see  me  chiefly;  and  Sophy  from 
Liverpool,  with  'Jackie,'  a  remarkably  stirring  little  gentleman  of 
three  and  a  half  years;  and  another  human  mite,  that  rejoices  as 
yet  in  the  name  of  'Baby.'  And  in  the  dead  watches  of  the  night 
there  will  arise  a  sound  of  '  infants  weeping  in  the  porch; '  and  on 
the  whole  it  is  not  now  like  Paradise  here,  as  it  was  in  ni}'  first  two 
weeks.  I  should  have  stayed  still  here  while  the  coast  was  clear, 
and  only  been  going  on  my  Haddington  visit  now.  But,  above 
all,  I  should  not  have  gone  and  got  myself  all  stewed  into  mush, 
hearing  a  popular  preacher:  though  out  of  all  sight  the  very  most 
eloquent  preacher  I  ever  head,  or  wish  to  hear.  Never  was  there 
such  exquisite  artistic  simplicity!  never  such  gushing  affluence  of 
imagery !  It  reminded  me  of  those  god-daughters  of  good  fairies 
in  my  nursery  tales,  who  every  time  they  opened  their  blessed 
mouths  '  pearls  and  rubies  rolled  out.'  But,  alas!  they  were  the 
pearls  and  rubies  of  a  dream!  One  brought  awa}'  none  of  them  in 
one's  pocket  to  buy  a  meal  of  meat  with,  if  one  happened  to  need 
one.i 

So  long  as  it  is  in  my  head,  please  send  me  three  or  four  auto- 
graphs for  my  aunt  Ann,  to  give  to  some  friend  of  hers,  who  has 
applied  to  her  to  beg  them  of  you  for  some  philanthropic  purpose 
or  other.  I  have  had  a  knot  in  my  pocket  handkerchief  to  remind 
me  of  this  for  some  time. 

As  to  Samuel  Brown — '  the  history  of  Samuel  Brown'''  is  this: ' 
For  seven  years  he  has,  as  you  know,  been  afflicted  with  some  de- 
rangement of  the  bowels,  which  was  always  expected  to  terminate 
fatally  in  iliac  passion.  Some  weeks  ago  he  seemed  beyond  recov- 
ery, and,  indeed,  they  were  watching  him  for  death.  At  last  his 
bowels  being  moved  by  some  very  strong  medicine,  there  was 
passed  a  little  bone;  a  bone  of  some  sort  of  game — grouse  they 
think — about  half  an  inch  long  only,  and  this  having  fixed  its  sharp 
end  into  tlie  bowel  had  caused  (the  doctors  are  positive)  his  whole 
illness.  He  has  no  recollection  of  ever  swallowing  the  bone.  As 
it  left  an  open  hole  in  the  Ijowel,  and  he  was  already  so  weak,  they 
did  not  think  he  would  be  able  to  struggle  through  the  cure,  but  it 

•  Never  looked  at  eloquent  Guthrie  again,  »  See  note,  p.  50. 


52  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

is  now  a  good  many  weeks  and  he  is  still  alive  (I  believe),  and  if  he 
escapes  the  danger  of  having  the  bowel  closed  up  in  the  course  of 
healing  the  hole  in  it,  he  will  be  restored  to  perfect  health,  the  doc- 
tors think.'  All  this,  which  I  was  told  by  Susan  Hunter  in  Edinburgh, 
was  corroborated  for  me  by  the  poor  man's  sister  at  Haddington. 
Isn't  it  a  strange  story?  such  a  poor,  little,  little  cause  producing  so 
much  torment  and  misery. 

I  have  written  till  the  prespiration  is  running  down  my  face — 
not  wisely  but  too  well. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Jane  W.  C. 
LETTER  171. 

T.  Carlyle,  Einloch  Luicliart,  Dingwall. 

Scotsbrig:  Thursday,  Sept.  18, 1856. 

Well,  I  am  safe  here,  though  not  without  a  struggle  for  it. 

Your  letter  this  morning  is  a  degree  more  legible  than  the  first 
one!  But,  dear  me!  what  galloping  and  spluttering  over  the  paper; 
as  if  you  were  writing  in  a  house  on  fire,  and  bent  on  making  a  lit- 
tle look  as  much  as  possible!  I  have  measured  the  distance  be- 
tween your  lines  in  the  letter  just  come,  and  it  is  precisely  one 
inch.  In  the  first  letter,  it  must  have  been  an  inch  and  half!  I 
call  that  a  foolish  waste  of  writing  paper!  If  you  have  an  excel- 
lent bedroom,  could  you  not  retire  into  it  for,  say,  one  hour,  in  the 
course  of  a  whole  week,  and  write  composedly  and  leisurely? 
Why  write  in  the  midst  of  four  people? 

For  the  rest,  in  spite  of  all  objections,  'for  the  occasion  got  up,' 
I  daresay  you  are  pretty  comfortable.  Why  not?  When  you  go 
to  any  house,  one  knows  it  is  because  you  choose  to  go ;  and  when 
you  stay,  it  is  because  you  choose  to  stay.  You  don't,  as  weakly 
amiable  people  do,  sacrifice  yourself  for  the  pleasure  of  '  others. 
So  pray  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  be  wishiug  yourself  at  home, 
and  '  all  that  sort  of  thing,'  on  paper.  '  I  don't  believe  thee!'^  If 
I  were  inclined  to,  I  should  only  have  to  call  to  mind  the  beautiful 
letters  you  wrote  to  me  during  your  former  visit  to  the  Ashburtons 
in  the  Highlands,  and  which  you  afterwards  disavowed  and  tram- 
pled into  the  fire !  ! 

As  to  Tom  Gillespie,  if  you  could  have  got  into  his  hands,  I  am 
sure  he  would  have  been  useful  to  you,  and  been  delighted  to  be 
so.     But  the  poor  man  is  quite  laid- up,  has  been  for  long  in  a  dan- 

1  He  died,  poor  fellow.  "■' '  I  don't  believe  thee,'  my  father's  phrase. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  53 

gerous  state.  His  sister,  Mrs.  Binnie,  lives  near  the  Caledonian 
Railway;  and  I  spent  the  hours  I  had  to  wait  for  the  train  on  Tues- 
day at  her  house,  and  she  was  speaking  quite  despondingly  about 
him.     So  that  it  is  no  go ! 

Five  pounds  is  as  easily  sent  as  two  one-pounds  notes;  mor<e 
easily  indeed,  for  I  have  no  one-pound  notes.  So  I  send  a  five- 
pound  note  to  put  you  out  of  all  danger  of  running  short.  It  is  a 
very  unnecessary  grievance  that  to  incur!  so  long  as  one  has  money. 

I  write  to  Mrs.  Russell  to-day  that  I  shall  be  at  Thornhill  on 
Monday,  D.V.  Isabella  says  I  had  best  go  from  here  to  Annan;  it 
will  make  the  gig-journey  shorter.  I  haven't  the  least  objection  to 
the  gig- journey,  'quite  the  contrary.'  But  I  daresay  Jamie's  time 
is  very  precious  just  now,  so  I  accepted  that  route  at  once. 
Whether  I  return  to  Scotsbrig  or  not  will  depend  on  your  arrange- 
ments. 

Lady  Ashburton  is  very  kind  to  offer  to  take  me  back.  Pray 
make  her  ray  thanks  for  the  offer.  But  though  a  very  little  her- 
ring, I  have  a  born  liking  to  '  hang  by  my  own  head.'  And  when 
it  is  a  question  simply  of  paying  my  own  way,  or  having  it  paid 
for  me,  I  prefer  '  lashing  down ' '  my  four  or  five  sovereigns  on  the 
table  all  at  once!  If  there  were  any  companionship  in  the  matter 
it  would  be  different;  and  if  you  go  back  with  the  Ashburtons  it 
would  be  different,  as  then  I  should  be  going  merely  as  part  of 
your  luggage,  without  self-responsibility.  Settle  it  as  you  like,  it 
will  be  all  one  to  me;  meeting  you  at  Scotsbrig,  or  in  Edinburgh, 
or  going  home  by  myself  from  Thornhill. 

This  is  September  19th,  the  day  of  my  father's  death, 

Jamie  is  going  to  take  me  a  little  drive  at  one  o'clock.  He  is 
such  a  dear  good  Jamie  for  me  always! 

Walter  wrote  me  a  long  letter,  to  meet  me  at  Scotsbrig,  which  I 
received  in  bed  yesterday,  and  it  gave  me  'a  good  comforting  cry;* 
it  is  ,so  kind — oh,  so  kind  and  brotherly! 

Yours  faithfully, 

Jane  W.  C. 


•  '  Lashing  clown  my  four  or  flre  sovereigns.'  *  They  tould  me  he  was  'listed. 
I  sought  high  and  low;  at  last  I  found  him  in  an  upstairs  room  at  breakfast 
among  tliem,  with  an  ounce  of  tay  and  a  quarter  of  sugar,  all  lashed  down  on 
the  table  at  one  time!  Says  I,  "  Pat,  you're  going  on  at  a  great  rate  here, 
but,"  &c.  &c.'  Speech  of  an  Irish  peasant's  father  on  his  lost  son,  to  Edward 
Irving  long  ago. 


54  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 


LETTER  173. 
T.  Carlyle,  Kinloch  Ltiichart,  Dingwall. 

Scotsbrig:  Monday,  Sept.  22,  1856. 

Oh,  dear!  ob,  dear!  To  be  thrown  into  a  quandary  like  this, 
just  when  I  am  getting  ready  to  start  for  Tliornhill!  You  are  so 
wrong  in  your  dates  that  I  don't  know  what  to  malie  of  it.  '  22nd ' 
you  have  written  at  the  top  of  your  note,  and  it  arrives  here  on  the 
22nd! 

It  may  be  all  right,  but  also  it  may  very  probably  be  all  wrong, 
and  the  five-pound  note  I  sent  you  from  Ecclefechan  on  Thursday, 
the  18th,  and  the  long  letter  that  accompanied  it,  gone  to  nobody 
knows  where!  Pleasant!  Why  can't  you  take  money  enough  with 
you?  If  I  had  not  been  told  to  inclose  notes  I  would  have  sent  a 
post-office  order  on  Dingwall. 

Till  I  hear  for  certain  that  the  letter  and  money  are  lost,  I  don't 
know  what  to  write!  There  is  no  pleasure  in  telling  you  the  same 
things  over  again. 

I  took  the  letter  to  Ecclefechan  in  the  gig,  and  Jamie  posted  it 
while  I  bought  envelopes.  There  was  no  visibility  of  the  note  in 
it  even  when  held  between  you  and  the  light. 

Please  to  write  immediately  on  receiving  this,  to  Mrs.  Russell's, 
Thornhill,  Dumfriesshire,  to  say  you  have  got  the  money. 

Jamie  is  going  to  drive  me  to  Annan,  and  it  is  a  day  of  heavy 
showers.     But  I  am  to  be  met  at  Thornhill  station,  and  must  go. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Jane  Welsh  Carlylb. 

LETTER  173. 

Alas!  my  poor,  much  suffering,  ever  toiling,  and  endeavouring 
woman.  No  doubt  I  was  very  bad  company,  sunk  overhead  in  the 
Frederick  mud  element. 

Anne  did  not  go  at  this  time;  but  a  sad,  sick  winter  was  await- 
ing my  dear  one :  confined  to  the  house  for  five  months  and  utterly 
weak,  says  a  note  of  the  time!  Her  patience  in  such  cases  always 
was  unsurpassable— patience,  silent  goodness,  anxiety  only  for  one 
unworthy. — T.  C. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Tliornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  Oct.  10, 1856. 
Oh,  my  dear!  my  dear!  my  dear!— To  keep  myself  from  going 
stark  mad  I  must  give  myself  something  pleasant  to  do  for  this  one 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  55 

hour!  And  nothing  so  pleasant  suggests  itself  as  just  writing  to 
you,  to  tell  you  how  miserable  and  aggravated  I  am!  Geraldine 
says,  '  Why  on  earth,  when  I  was  beside  a  doctor  I  had  confidence 
in,  didn't  I  consult  him  about  my  health? '  Why?  Because  when 
I  was  beside  Dr.  Russell,  and  indeed  (except  for  a  common  cold) 
all  the  time  I  was  in  Scotland,  nothing  ailed  my  health!  A  London 
doctor's  prescription  for  me  long  ago  (the  only  sensible  man  I  ever 
knew  in  the  profession  here — a  pity  he  is  dead),  that  I  '  should  be 
kept  always  happy  and  tranquil'  (!  !  !),  had  finally  got  itself  carried 
into  effect  for  ten  whole  weeks,  and  was  found  an  efiicacy !  But 
from  tlie  day  I  left  Scotland  quite  other  things  than  happiness  and 
tranquillity  have  been  'thrown  into  my  system '1  I  arrived  here 
with  a  furious  faceache,  Mr.  C.  having  insisted  on  my  sitting  in  a 
violent  draught  all  the  journey;  that  kept  me  perfectly  sleepless  all 
night,  in  spite  of  my  extreme  fatigue,  and  so  I  began  to  be  ill  at 
once,  and  have  gone  on  crescendo  in  the  same  ratio  that  my  worries 
have  increased.  Figure  this:  [Scene — a  room  where  everything  is 
enveloped  in  dark  yellow  London  fog!  For  air  to  breathe,  a  sort 
of  liquid  soot!  Breakfast  on  the  table — '  adulterated  coffee,'  '  adul- 
terated bread,'  '  adulterated  cream,'  and  'adulterated  water'!]  Mr. 
C.  at  one  end  of  the  table,  looking  remarkably  bilious;  Mrs.  C.  at 
the  other,  looking  half  dead!  Mr.  C. :  '  My  dear,  I  have  to  inform 
you  that  my  bed  is  full  of  bugs,  or  fleas,  or  some  sort  of  animals 
that  crawl  over  me  all  night!'  Now,  I  must  tell  you,  Mr.  C.  had 
written  to  me,  at  Auchtertool,  to  'write  emphatically  to  Anne 
about  keeping  all  the  windows  open ;  for,  with  her  horror  of  fresh 
air,  she  was  quite  capaT)le  of  having  the  house  full  of  bugs  when 
we  returned; '  and  so  I  imputed  this  announcement  to  one  of  these 
fixed  ideas  men,  and  especially  husbands,  are  apt  to  take  up,  just 
out  of  sheer  love  of  worrying!  Living  in  a  universe  of  bugs  out- 
side, I  had  entirely  ceased  to  fear  them  in  my  own  house,  having 
kept  it  so  many  years  perfectly  clean  from  all  such  abominations. 
So  I  answered  with  merely  a  sarcastic  shrug,  that  was  no  doubt 
very  ill-timed  under  the  circumstances,  and  which  drew  on  me  no 
end  of  what  the  Germans  call  Kraftsprilche !  -But  clearly  the 
practical  tiling  to  be  done  was  to  go  and  examine  his  bed — and  I 
am  practical,  moi!  So,  instead  of  getting  into  a  controversy  that 
had  no  basis,  I  proceeded  to  toss  over  his  blankets  and  pillows, 
with  a  certain  sense  of  injury!  But,  on  a  sudden,  I  paused  in 
my  operations;  I  stooped  to  look  at  something  the  size  of  a 
pin-point;  a  cold  shudder  ran  over  me;  as  sure  as  I  lived  it  was 


56  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

an  infant  bug!  And,  oh,  heaven,  that  bug,  little  as  it  was,  must 
have  parents  —  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  perhaps  !  I 
went  on  looking  then  with  frenzied  minuteness,  and  saw  enough 
to  make  me  put  on  my  bonnet  and  rush  out  wildly,  in  the  black 
rain,  to  hunt  up  a  certain  trustworthy  carpenter  to  come  and 
take  down  the  bed.  The  next  three  days  I  seemed  to  be  in 
the  thick  of  a  domestic  Baluklava,  which  is  now  even  only  sub- 
siding— not  subsided.  Anne,  though  I  have  reproached  her  with 
carelessness  (decidedly  there  was  not  the  vestige  of  a  bug  in  the 
whole  house  when  we  went  away),  is  so  indignant  that  the  house 
should  be  turned  up  after  she  had  '  settled  it, '  and  that '  such  a  fuss 
should  be  made  about  bugs,  which  are  inevitable  in  London,'  that 
she  flared  up  on  me,  while  I  was  doing  her  work,  and  declared  '  it 
was  to  be  hoped  I  would  get  a  person  to  keep  my  house  cleaner 
than  she  had  done;  as  she  meant  to  leave  that  day  month! '  To 
which  I  answered,  '  Very  good,'  and  nothing  more.  And  now  you 
see,  instead  of  coming  back  to  anything  like  a  home,  I  have  come 
back  to  a  house  full  of  bugs  and  evil  passions !  I  shall  have  to  be 
training  a  new  servant  into  the  ways  of  the  house  (when  I  have  ^ot 
her)  at  a  season  of  the  year  when  it  will  be  the  most  uphill  work  for 
both  her  and  me.  As  to  this  woman,  I  kept  her  these  three  years 
because  she  was  a  clever  servant,  and  carried  on  the  house  without 
any  bother  to  me;  but  I  never  liked  her  as  a  woman;  from  the  first 
week  I  perceived  her  to  be  what  she  has  since  on  all  occasions 
proved  herself,  cunning,  untrue,  and  intensely  selfish.  The  atmos- , 
phere  of  such  a  character  was  not  good,  and  nothing  but  moral 
cowardice  could  have  made  me  go  on  with  her.  But  I  did  so  dread 
always  the  bothers  and  risks  of  '  a  change  '!  Now„  however,  that 
it  is  forced  on  me,  I  console  myself  by  thinking,  with  that  'hope 
which  springs  eternal  in  the  human  mind,'  that  I  may  find  a  ser- 
vant, after  all,  whom  it  may  be  possible  to,  not  only  train  into  my 
ways,  but  attach  to  me !  What  a  fool  I  am !  Oh,  I  should  so  like 
a  Scotchwoman,  if  I  could  get  any  feasible  Scotchwoman.  These 
Londoners  are  all  of  the  cut  of  this  woman.  I  have  written  to 
Haddington,  where  the  servants  used  to  be  very  good,  to  know  if 
they  can  do  anything  for  me.  I  suppose  it  is  needless  asking  you; 
of  course,  if  there  had  been  any  '  treasure '  procurable  you  would 
have  engaged  her  yourself.  But  do  you  really  know  nobody  I 
could  get  from  Nithsdale?  How  stupid  it  was  of  Margaret  not  to 
come  when  I  wanted  her.  I  am  sure  it  is  harder  work  she  must 
have  at  the  Castle.     Oh,  my  darling,  I  wish  you  were  here  to  give 


JANE  WELSH  CxVELYLE.  57 

me  a  kiss,  and  cheer  me  up  a  bit  with  your  soft  voice !  In  cases 
of  this  sort,  Geraldine  with  the  best  intentions  is  no  help.  She  is 
unpractical,  lilce  all  women  of  genius!  She  was  so  pleased  with 
your  letter!  'My  dear,'  she  said  to  me,  'how  is  it  that  women 
who  don't  write  books  write  alwaj^s  so  much  nicer  letters  than 
those  who  do?'  I  told  her  it  was,  I  supposed,  because  thay  did 
not  write  in  the  '  Valley  of  the  shadow '  of  their  future  biogra- 
pher, but  wrote  what  they  had  to  say  frankly  and  naturally. 

Your  father  (a  kiss  to  him)  should  write  me  a  word  about  '  Provi- 
dence.' Oh,  be  pleased  all  of  you,  Dr.  Russell  too,  for  all  so  busy 
as  he  is,  to  think  of  me,  and  love  me !  I  have  great  faith  in  the 
magnetic  influence  of  kind  thoughts.  And,  upon  my  honour,  I 
need  to  be  soothed — magnetically,  and  in  any  possible  way! 

Your  affectionate 

Jaite  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  174. 
To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Jan  2, 1857. 

My  dear  Mary, — The  box  came  yesterday,  all  safe — not  so  much 
as  one  egg  cracked,  and  just  in  time  to  have  one  of  the  fowls 
boiled  for  Mr.  C.'s  dinner.  Mr.  C.  dines  all  by  himself  at  present, 
I  merely  looking  on,  as  he  doesn't  participate  in  my  dislike  to  eat- 
ing in  presence  of  one's  fellow-creatures  not  similarly  occupied. 

Since  my  illness,  that  is  to  say,  pretty  nearly  ever  since  I  re- 
turned from  Scotland,  I  have  used  my  privilege  of  invalid  (and  no 
doubt  about  it)  to  dine  at  the  hour  when  nature  and  reason  prompt 
me  to  dine,  viz.  two  o'clock,  instead  of  at  Mr.  C.'s  fashionable  hour 
of  six.  So  my  go  at  the  fowl  comes  off  to-day.  They  look  fa- 
mous ones;  and  as  for  the  goose — heaven  and  earth!  what  a  goose! 
Even  Anne,  who  i»  so  difficult  to  warm  up  to  bare  satisfaction 
point  with  anything  of  an  eatable  sort,  stood  amazed  before  that 
goose,  '  as  in  presence  of  the  intiiiite! '  and,  when  she  had  found  her 
tongue,  broke  forth  with,  'Lord!  ain't  it  fat,  ma'm?'  Thank  you 
very  much,  dear  Mary.  Your  box  reminds  me  of  the  time  when 
you  came  to  me  at  some  dreadful  inn  at  Annan,  whei"e  I  happened 
to  be,  I  don't  remember  why,  and  was  doing  I  don't  remember 
what,  except  that  I  was  horridly  sick  and  uncomfortable,  and  you 
came  tripping  in  with  a  reticule-basket,  and  gave  me  little  cakes  and 
sweeties  out  of  it;  and  that  comforted  my  mind,  if  not  exactly  good 
II.— 3* 


58  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

for  my  stomach.  Dear  Mary,  how  kind  you  used  to  be  in  those  old 
times,  when  we  were  thrown  so  much  on  one  another's  company! 
That  is  the  only  feature  of  my  existence  at  Craig-o'-putta  that  I 
recall  with  pleasure;  the  rest  of  it  was  most  dreary  and  uncon- 
genial. 

The  meal  is  welcome,  for  I  brought  but  little  from  Scotsbrig,  not 
thinking  to  need  more.  When  I  dine  in  the  middle  of  the  day, 
however,  I  can  take  my  old  supper  of  porridge,  provided  I  feel  up 
to  the  bother  of  making  it  myself.  So  I  have  my  porridge,  while 
Mr.  C.  takes  his  more  unsubstantial  breadberry— so  I  call  it — Anne 
calls  it  '  Master's  pap ' ! 

We  have  beautiful  weather  again,  and  I  get  out  for  a  drive  in  an 
omnibus.  The  Scotsbrig  gig  would  be  nicer,  but  anything  is  better 
than  walking,  when  one  feels  like  an  eel  in  the  matter  of  backbone. 
I  go  in  an  omnibus  from  the  bottom  of  our  street  to  the  end  of  its 
line,  and  just  come  back  again;  thus  realising  some  fourteen  miles 
of  shaking  at  the  modest  cost  of  one  shilling.  Mr.  C.'s  horse  gives 
him  the  highest  satisfaction ;  he  says  it  is  a  quite  remarkable  com- 
bination of  courage  and  sensibility.  The  Secretary,  too,  would  do 
well  enough  if  he  could  only  give  over  'sniffing  through  his  nose.' 
The  canaries  are  the  happiest  creatures  in  the  house ;  the  dog  next. 

Kind  regards  to  your  husband  and  Margaret. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER    175. 

Monday,  May  4  1857.— At  Paris,  on  her  way  home  from  Nice, 
Lady  Ashburton  (born  Lady  Harriet  Montague)  suddenly  died: 
suddenly  to  the  doctors  and  those  who  believed  them ;  in  which 
number,  fondly  hoping  against  hope,  was  I.  A  sad  and  greatly  in- 
teresting event  to  me  and  to  many !  The  most  queen-like  woman 
I  had  ever  known  or  seen.  The  honour  of  her  constant  regard  liad 
for  ten  years  back  been  among  my  proudest  and  most  valued  pos- 
sessions— lost  now;  gone — for  ever  gone!  This  was  our  tirst  visit 
to  Addiscombe  after.  I  rode  much  about  with  Lord  A.  in  intimate 
talk,  and  well  recollect  this  visit  of  perhaps  a  week  or  ten  days, 
and  of  the  weeks  that  preceded  and  followed.  How  well  I  still 
remember  the  evening  Richard  Milnes  brought  down  the  news; 
the  moonlit  streets,  and  dirge-like  tone  of  everything,  as  I  walked 
up  to  Lady  Sandwich's  door  and  asked  for  the  weak,  devoted,  aged 
mother.  In  no  society,  English  or  other,  had  I  seen  the  equal  or 
the  second  of  this  great  lady  that  was  gone;  by  nature  and  by  cul- 
ture fa  cils  pri7ic.eps  she,  I  think,  of  all  great  ladies  I  have  ever  seen. 

My  Jane's  miserable  illness  now  over,  a  visit  to  Haddington  was 
steadily  in  view  all  summer.     July  7. — Craik  from  Belfast,  with  hjg 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  59 

daughters,  was  here  holidaying;  had  decided  on  flying  to  Edin- 
burgh by  some  unrivalled  and  cheap  excursion  train,  and  persuaded 
her  to  go  with  them.  I  accompanied  to  Euston  Square;  had  dis- 
mal omens  of  the  'unrivalled,' which  were  fully  realised  through 
the  night.— T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Sunny  Bank,  Haddington:  Wednesday,  July  8, 1857. 

Oh,  mercy!  Lord  be  thanked!  '  Good  times,  and  bad  times,  and 
all  times  pass  over.'  Last  night  is  passed  over,  like  an  excessively 
bad  dream ;  and  I  am  sitting  here  in  cleanness  and  quiet,  announc- 
ing my  safety  so  far.  But  it  is  a  wonder  that  somebody  else  has  not 
rather  to  announce  my  death  by  'bad  air.'  Oh,  my  dear!  you  saw 
all  those  people  in  one  box,  sixteen  of  them!  "Well,  imagine  that 
they  closed  every  window  and  slit,  except  the  fourth  window,  com- 
manded by  Georgina  '  and  me.  Not  one  breath  of  air  to  be  had  all 
night  except  in  holding  one's  head  out  of  the  window.  Craik  and 
his  offsprings  ^  were  very  attentive  and  kind,  and  I  ate  my  cold  fowl 
wing,  and  drank  a  little  brandy  and  water;  and  the  large  Scotch- 
man offered  me  '  his  shoulder  to  rest  on,  if  it  would  be  of  any  ser- 
vice;' but  what  availed  all  that  against  'a  polluted  atmosphere'? 
How  it  happened  that  everybody  got  through  the  night  alive  I  can't 
explain;  nay,  everybody  but  Craik,  one  of  his  girls,  and  myself, 
slept  the  sleep  of  the  just!  By  the  way,  you  may  tell  Mr.  Larkin 
'snoring '  is  not  audible  in  a  railway  train.  My  chief  torment  pro- 
ceeded from  the  tendency  to  sleep  produced  by  the  atmosphere  get- 
ting itself  overcome  by  the  upright  position,  with  no  rest  for  the 
head.  It  'was  cheap,'  but  I  did  not  'likeit,'^  and  have  seldom 
been  thankf uUer  than  when  I  found  myself  the  only  living  creature 
visible  at  the  Dunbar  station,  after  the  Craiks  had  streamed  away. 
I  washed  my  face  with  Eau-de-Cologne,  and  combed  my  dishev- 
elled hair  in  a  little,  cold,  tidy  waiting-room;  and  in  about  an  hour 
my  train  came  and  picked  me  up,  and  set  me  down  at  Haddington 
station  soon  after  nine,  where  the  carriage  was  duly  waiting. 

I  never  saw  the  country  about  here  look  so  lovely,  but  I  viewed  it 
all  with  a  calm  about  as  morbid  as  was  my  excitement  last  year.  Dear 
Miss  Jess  received  me  with  open  arms  in  a  room  with  a  bright  fire, 
and  the  prettiest  breakfast-table  set  out.  Miss  Donaldson  does  not 
come  down  till  eleven.     They  are  the  same  heavenly  kind  creatures, 

'  Craik.  *  Both  {supra). 

*  Famous  Dr.  Reid  on  whisky  punch. 


60  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  there  is  no  falling  off  evea  ia  looks  since  last  year.  I  am  not 
going  out  of  the  house  again  to-day,  but  I  cannot  write,  I  am  so 
wearied!  oh,  so  dreadfully  wearied!  Being  hindered  from  sleeping 
is  quite  another  thing  from  not  being  able  to  sleep. 

I  hope  you  found  a  fire  when  you  got  home,  and  some  reasonable 
good  tea.  If  you  could  fancy  me  in  some  part  of  the  house  out  of 
sight,  my  absence  would  make  little  difference,  considering  how 
little  I  see  of  you,  and  how  preoccupied  you  are  when  I  do  see  you. 

Do  you  know  I  had  yester-even  a  presentiment  I  should  die  be- 
fore I  got  back?  Those  things  Lord  Ashburton  brought  had  shiv- 
ered me  all  through,  and  the  first  thing  we  met  was  a  coffin.  I  was 
so  nervous  that  I  wanted  to  scream,  but  the  physical  weariness  had 
quashed  down  that  nonsense. 

Oh!  be  kind  to  Nero,  and  slightly  attentive  to  the  canaries,  and 
my  poor  little  nettle  and  gooseberry  bush.  Moreover,  tell  Anne  she 
will  find  Mrs.  Cook's  bill  in  my  blot-book;  I  forgot  to  give  it  to  her. 
I  also  forgot  to  bring  my  boa;  tell  Anne,  please,  to  shake  it  every 
two  or  three  days,  and  to  leave  the  fur  jacket  exposed  to  the  air 
where  I  placed  it,  and  shake  it  and  the  great  fur  coat  downstairs 
frequently.  She  let  the  moths  get  into  my  fur  last  year.  A  kiss  to 
Nero. 

I  wonder  how  you  are  getting  along. 

God  keep  you. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carltle. 

I  wish  you  would  thank  Lord  Ashburton  for  me.  I  couldn't  say 
anything  about  his  kindness  in  giving  me  those  things,  which  she 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  wearing.  I  felt  so  sick  and  so  like  to  cry, 
that  I  am  afraid  I  seemed  quite  stupid  and  ungrateful  to  him. 

LETTER  176. 
T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Haddington:  July  14,  1857. 
Good  morning,  dear  I  I  wonder  if  you  are  '  quite  happy  and  com- 
fortable' this  morning?  or — what  shall  I  say — 'contrairy'?  Per- 
haps I  may  have  a  letter  by  the  midday  post;  your  last  came  by  it. 
But  it  is  best,  in  my  own  writing,  to  take  time  'by  the  forelock;' 
his  pigtail  is  so  apt  to  come  away  in  one's  hand !  Indeed,  I  have 
less  time  for  letter- writing  here  than  might  be  thought,  considering 
the  quiet  monotony  of  the  life  I  lead.    I  am  '  called '  at  eight  by 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  61 

their  clock;  but  in  reaHty  at  half-past  seven;  and  at  a  quarter  after 
eight  (in  reality)  Miss  Jess  and  I  sit  down  to  'breakfast :  tea,  eggs, 
brown  bread,  and  honey-comb.  This  is  Miss  Jess's  best  talking 
time,  and  we  sit  till  ten  or  so.  From  that  till  eleven  I  may  write, 
or  darn  my  stockings,  or  meditate  on  things  in  general,  without  be- 
ing missed. 

At  eleven  the  carriage  comes  round,  and  both  ladies  go  a  drive  of 
two  miles  along  the  Dunbar  Road!  I  accompany  them;  and,  hav- 
ing'set  them  down  at  their  own  door  again,  I  go  a  long  drive  by  my- 
self. That  is  my  chief  entertainment  during  the  day.  Nowhere  in 
the  world  that  I  know  of  are  there  such  beautiful  drives;  and  I 
recognise  places  that  I  had  seen  in  my  dreams,  the  recollection  of 
them  having  been  preserved  in  my  sleep  long  after  it  had  passed 
out  of  my  waking  mind. 

I  come  in  just  in  time  to  change  my  dress  and  rest  before  dinner 
at  three ;  a  dinner  always  '  very  good  to  eat '  (as  you  say)  and  of 
patriarchal  simplicity.  Always  strawberries  and  cream  ad  libitum! 
Between  dinner  and  tea  (at  six)  I  talk  to  Miss  Donaldson,  and  I 
take  a  little  walk,  to  the  churchyard  or  some  place  that  I  care  for. 
After  tea  talking  again,  or  I  read  aloud — excessively  loud  (I  read 
them  your  Nigger  Question,  much  to  Miss  Donaldson's  approval 
and  delight);  and  before  suj^per  (of  arrowroot  milk),  at  half-past 
nine,  I  have  run  down  every  evening  to  speak  a  few  words  of  en- 
couragement to  my  poor  unlawful  cousin,  in  her  sick  bed.  I  think 
she  would  recover  if  she  could  overcome  the  effects  of  the  frightful 
quantity  of  mercury  Mr.  Howden  has  given  her.  My  heavens,  what 
ny^  father  would  have  said  to  him !     At  ten,  bed  !  ! 

I  am  so  grieved  to  find  the  fair,  which  used  to  be  held  to-day,  has 
turned  into  a  mere  cattle-fair;  no  booths  with  toys  and  sweeties!' 
and  I  had  set  my  heart  on  buying  a  pah*  of  waxen  babes  of  the 
■wood  covered  with  moss  (by  imaginary  robins),  in  a  little  oval  spale- 
box,'  which  used  to  be  my  favorite  fairing.  Last  niglit,  however,  I 
bought  a — hedgehog  from  a  wee  boy.  I  thought  I  might  take  it 
home  in  my  carpet-bag  to  eat  the  cockroaches.  Perhaps  I  will  think 
better  of  it! 

I  imagine  Miss  Jess  was  so  inspirited  by  my  presence,  that  last 
Sunday  she  'took  a  notion'  of  going  to  church!  She  had  not 
been  there  for  years.  Of  course  I  had  to  go  with  her.  As  it  was 
to  '  the  chapel '  I  didn't  so  much  mind.  I  should  not  liave  liked  to 
sit'in  a  strange  seat  in  our  own  church.     I  found  the  poor  little 

»  Anglican  comfits.  " '  Spate '  is  joiner's  shaving,  spill. 


62  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

whitewashed,  bare- boarded  chapel  transformed  into  a  little  blossom 
of  Puseyite  taste!  Puiuted  glass  windows!  Magnificent  organ! 
Airs  from  the  opera  of  '  Acis  and  Galatea '  I  the  most  snow-white 
and  ethereal  of  surplices!  and  David  Roughead  (he  of  the  'fertile 
iroegination ')  chanting  his  responses  behind  us,  and  singing  '  a  deep 
bass,'  and  tossing  off  his  A — mgns!  in  a  jaunty  style,  that  gave  me  a 
strong  desire  to  box  his  ears. 

Give  my  compliments  to  Anne ;  the  usual  kiss  to  my  '  blessed ' 
dog. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  177. 
T.  Carlyle,  Chdsea. 

Sunny  Bank:  Thursday,  July  23,  1857. 

The  pens  you  made  me,  dear,  are  all  ground  down  on  this  lime- 
paper,  and  I  am  obliged  to  write  now  with  the  backs,  whicli  has  a 
perverse  effect  on  my  ideas,  and  my  ideas  are  rather  awry  to  begin 
with.  I  feel  provoked  that,  having  '  made  an  effort '  like  this  to 
get  well,  I  do  not  succeed  in  doing  it  effectually  and  at  once.  '  Very 
absurd.'  I  ought  to  be  thankful  for  ever  so  little  amendment ;  above 
all,  even  if  no  cure  should  be  worked  on  me  by  all  this  fresh  air, 
and  sweet  milk,  and  riding  in  carriages,  and  having  my  own  entire 
humour  out,  I  ougiit  to  be  thankful  for  the  present  escape  from 
that  horrid  sickness,  wliich  nobody  that  has  not  felt  it  can  know 
the  horror  of. 

Though  my  nights  are  no  better  than  they  were  at  Chelsea — in- 
deed, worse  latterly — still  it  is  only  oppression  and  weariness  1  feel 
during  the  day;  not  that  horrid  feeling  as  if  death  were  grasping  at 
my  heart.  But,  'oh,  my! '  what  a  shame,  when  you  are  left  alone 
there  with  plenty  of  smoke  of  your  own  to  consume,  to  be  pufBng 
out  mine  on  you  from  this  distance!  It  is  certainly  a  questionable 
privilege  one's  best  friend  enjoys,  that  of  having  all  one's  darkness 
rayed  out  on  him.  If  I  were  writing  to — who  shall  I  say? — Mr. 
Barlow,  now,  I  should  fill  my  paper  with  'wits,'  and  elegant 
quotations,  and  diverting  anecdotes;  should  write  a  letter  that 
would  procure  me  laudation  sky-high,  on  my  '  charming,  unflag- 
ging spirits,'  and  my  '  extraordinary  freshness  of  mind  and  feelings; ' 
but  to  you  I  cannot  for  my  life  be  anything  but  a  bore. 

I  went  and  drank  tea  with  Mrs.  David  Davidson,  the  worst-used 
woman  I  ever  knew;  and  at  seventy-eight  years  of  age  she  hasn't  a 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  63 

drop  of  gall  in  her  whole  composition,  and  is  as  serene  as  if  she  had 
never  had  a  sorrow.  She  lias  still  the  same  servant,  Mary  Jeffrys, 
who  was  with  her  when  I  was  a  child;  she  has  served  her  with  the 
same  relish  for  fifty  years.  '  Ye  dinna  find  us  as  perfect  as  I  could 
wuss,'  she  (Mary)  said  to  me  (the  house  was  clean  as  a  new  pin); 
'  but  I'm  as  wullin  as  ever  to  work,  only  no  just  sae  able.'  At  the 
door  she  called  after  me:  '  Ye'Il  find  us  ay  here  while  we're  to  the 
fore;  but  it's  no  unco  lang  we  can  expect  to  get  bided.'  I  don't 
think  either  mistress  or  maid  could  survive  the  other  a  month. 

To-night,  again,  I  go  out  to  tea,  at  Miss  Brown's;  and  on  Satur- 
day night  at  the  Sheriffs',  who  were  at  school  with  me.  On  Mon- 
day I  go  to  Mrs.  Binnie's;  on  Tuesday  to  Craigenvilla,  Morning- 
side;  and  on  Wednesday  to  Auchtertool. 

I  have  a  most  affectionate  letter  from  Lady  Airlie,  but  I  hardly 
think  I  shall  go  so  far. 

Compliments  to  Anne.  Your  care  of  the  live  stock  does  '  credit 
to  your  head  and  hort.' ' 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Welsh  Carlyle. 


LETTER  178. 
T.  Carlyle,  vfielsea. 

Sunny  Bank:  Sunday,  July  26,  1857. 

Thanks  for  your  note,  meant  to  be  very  soothing,  I  can  see ;  but 
it  rather  soothes  me  the  wrong  way  of  the  hair  somehow — makes 
me  feel  I  had  been  making  a  baby  of  myself,  and  a  fractious  baby. 
Well,  never  mind,  as  Miss  Madeline  Smith  "^  said  to  old  Dr.  Simp- 
son, who  attended  her  during  a  short  illness  in  prison,  and  begged 
to  use  '  the  privilege  of  an  old  man,  and  speak  to  her  seriously  at 
parting,'  '  My  dear  doctor,  it  is  so  good  of  you.  But  I  won't  let 
you  trouble  yourself  to  give  me  advice,  for  I  assure  you  I  have 
quite  made  up  my  mind  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf!'  That  is  fact. 
Simpson  told  it  to  Terrot,  who  told  me. 

And  so  I  liuve  made  up  my  mind  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  no 
more  give  words  to  the  impatient  or  desponding  thoughts  that  rise 
in  my  mind  about  myself.     It  is  not  a  natural  vice  of  mine,  that 

'  Poor  Lady  Bulwer,  quizzing  (her  mother-in-law),  in  a  mad  mood,  where 
also  were  '  Fuz '  =  Forster,  &c.  &c. 
»  The  Glasgow  murderess. 


64  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

sort  of  egoistical  babblement,  but  has  been  fostered  in  me  by  the 
patience  and  sympathy  shown  me  in  my  late  long  illness.  I  can 
very  easily  leave  it  off,  as  I  did  smoking,  when  I  see  it  to  be  get- 
ting a  bad  habit. 

But  about  Miss  Smith  I  have  one  thing  to  tell  you  which  I  think 
you  will  be  rather  glad  of,  as  giving  the  death-stroke  to  testimonials. 
The  Glasgow  merchants  are  actually  raising  a  subscription  (it  has 
reached  nine  thousand  pounds)  '  to  testify  their  sympathy  for  her.' 

One  man,   a  Mr.  D ,  has  given  a  thousand  himself — he  had 

better  marry  her,  and  get  poisoned.  Not  that  I  believe  the  girl 
guilty  of  the  poisoning;  but  she  is  such  a  little  incarnate  devil  that 
the  murder  don't  go  for  much  in  my  opinion  of  her. 

Haddington  has  half  the  honour  of  having  produced  this  coca- 
trice.  I  knew  her  great-grandmother — a  decent,  ancient  woman, 
called  'Mealy  Janet,'  never  to  be  seen  but  with  a  bag  of  flour 
under  each  arm.  She  was  mother  to  the  '  Mr.  Hamilton,  architect 
of  Edinburgh,'  and  to  one  of  the  most  curious  figures  in  my  child- 
hood, Mysie  Hamilton,  or  '  Meal  Mysie '  (she  continuing  her  mother's 
flour  trade) ;  she  spoke  with  a  loud  man's  voice,  that  used  to  make 
us  children  take  to  our  heels  in  terror  when  we  heard  it.  I  remem- 
ber the  boys  said  Mysie  was  a but  what  that  was  I  hadn't  a 

notion,  nor  have  I  yet;  my  mother  thought  her  a  good  woman,  and 
once  by  way  of  la/k,  invited  Her  to  tea.  I  bought  a  pamphlet  the 
other  day  containing  the  whole  'trial,'  on  the  very  spot  where 
Mysie  Hamilton  sold  her  flour,  now  a  book-shop. 

i  was  in  our  own  house  yesterday.  They  have  new  papered  the 
drawing-room  and  dining-room.  But  the  paint  we  left  on  it  is  still  the 
same,  and  perfectly  new-looking,  after  some  forty  years.  My  father 
always  had  everything  done  effectually.  There  are  no  such  doors  as 
those  painted  wainscoat  ones  tliat  I  ever  saw,  with  their  eight  coats 
of  paint  and  as  many  of  varnish.  The  old  drawing-room  still  looks 
to  me  a  beautiful  room,  independent  of  associations.  But  a  full- 
length  portrait  of  Mr.  Howden,  leaning  like  Sir  David  Baird  on  his 
horse's  neck,  w^as  over  the  mantel-piece,  vulgarising  everything  by 
its  gloom-like  presence.  I  gave  young  Dr.  Howden,  who  lives 
there  still,  the  large  photograph  of  Wooluer's  Medallion, i  in  the 
secret  expectation  it  would  be  hung  up  in  that  dear  old  room  which 

still  feels  mine. 

And  my  youth  was  left  behind 
For  some  one  else  to  find.^ 


*  Of  me.  '  Supra,  my  wrong  recollection. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE,  65 

The  young  girl-wife  who  lives  there  is  very  lovely,  and  wrilea 
poetry — God  help  her! 

I  adhere  to  my  programme  of  leaving  to-morrow,  &c.,  but  have 
promised  to  stop  here  again  on  my  way  home.  I  could  not  help  it, 
when  I  saw  those  dear  old  women  crying  about  my  going  so  soon. 

[No  room  for  signature.     Two  flower-leaves — petals — inclosed.] 

LETTER  179. 

Archy  something,  an  enthusiast  Annandale  pedlar,  gone  half  mad 
with  theology  and  horror  of  mad  dogs,  was  gratefully  supping  por- 
ridge and  milk  in  a  wealthy  farmer's  kitchen  one  summer  evening, 
intending  to  lodge  there,  when  a  mischievous  maid  servant  whis- 
pered to  another,  'Was  that  the  bowl  the  stranger  dog  had?' as 
audibly  to  Archy  as  the  'Whist,  whist!'  (hush)  of  answer  was. 
Archy  sprang  to  his  feet,  snatched  his  pack,  and  ran  through  the 
wilderness  many  miles  incessantly  towards  the  cottage  of  a  brother 
wliom  he  had  there.  In  the  dead  of  the  night  a  knock  at  the  win- 
dow was  heard:  brother  asking  who?  what?  Archy  answered  'I'm 
degenerating.' 

T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Auchtertool:  Monday,  Aug.  8, 1857. 
Oh,  heaven!  or  rather,  oh,  the  other  place!  'I  am  degenerating 
from  a  woman  into  a  dog,  and  feel  an  inclination  to  bark — bow 
wow!  wow!'  Ever  since  I  came  here  I  have  been  passing  out  of 
one  silent  rage  into  another  at  the  things  in  general  of  this  house. 
Viewed  from  the  invalid  point  of  view,  they  are  enough  really  to 
make  one  not  only  bark  but  bite;  were  it  not  that,  in  other  people's 
houses,  one  has  to  assume  the  muzzle  of  politeness.  The  best 
intentions  always  unfortunate.  The  finest  possibilities  yielding 
zero,  or  worse.  'I'lie  maximum  of  bother  to  arrive  at  the  minimum 
of  comfort  (.so  far  as  I  am  concerned).  Is  it  possible  that  the 
change  of  a  cook  can  make  the  difference  betwixt  now  and  last 
summer?  or  is  it  the  increased  irritability  of  my  nerves  that  makes 
it?  or  are  my  cousins  getting  stupefied  for  want  of  anything  to  stir 
their  souls  on  this  hilltop?  The  devil  knows  best  how  it  comes, 
but  'I,  as  one  solitary  individual,'  find  no  satisfaction  in  the  ar- 
rangements here,  though  '  there  need  be  no  reflections  for  want  of 
roses,'  and,  '  beautiful  views,'  and  '  pure  air '  1  And  it  is  not  only 
my  soul  that  protests  but  my  body;  I  sleep  shockingly,  and  the 
sickness  has  come  back.  How  little  Mary  lias  escaped  dying  under 
these  late  and  irregular  hours,  and  bad  bread,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 


66  LETtEHS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

'much  ado  about  nothing,'  and  'don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it,' 
here,  is  a  wonder  to  me,  and  I  don't  think  much  of  her  doctor. 
When  I  looked  at  him  and  liis  ways  Intently,  the  other  day,  with 
a  half-thought  to  consult  him  myself  about  certain  things,  he  '  left 
me  cold,' ' — very  cold  indeed,  and,  'with  a  decided  preference,'  for 
nature!  Hadn't  I  better  be  going  then?  Decidedly;  '  being  an  only 
child,'  I  have  'no  wish'  to  stay.  But  then,  'that  damned  thing 
called  the  milk  of  human  kindness,'  ^  not  being  yet  all  gone  to  sour 
curd  in  me,  I  would  not  show  any  unfeeling  impatience  to  be  gone; 
where  I  am  treated  (though  God  knows  how  injudiciously)  most 
kindly  according  to  their  light  and  ability. 

I  have  written  to  Lady  Airlie  declining  the  honour  proposed  to 
me,  which  looked,  on  consideration,  something  of  the  Irishman's 
bottomless-Sedan  sort.  Also  I  have  declined  a  pressing  invitation 
to  Thornhill.  My  flesh  quivered  at  the  thought  of  going  through 
that  again,  in  my  present  weakness  of  body  and  mind.  But  I  mean 
to  stop  some  days— a  week  perhaps— with  my  aunts;  who  are  really 
good,  intelligent  companions  when  they  keep  off  their  hobby,  and 
where  I  am  well  cared  for  materially.  They  have  a  good,  plain 
house,  and  keep  early  hours  and  to  a  moment,  and  seemed  really 
pleased  to  have  me.  I  never  saw  women  more  improved  by  keep- 
ingl  I  had  been  thinking  to  try  a  week's  sea-bathing  before  you 
suggested  it;  and  perhaps  shall  go  for  a  week  to  Portobello  or 
North  Berwick.  At  all  events,  I  go  back,  if  I  am  spared,  to  Sunny 
Bank  to  start  from  there  for  London.  I  could  not  get  away  with- 
out promising  that,  and  shall  be  very  glad  of  another  breath  of  my 
'  native  air '—I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were  the  last  till  it  blows  over 
my  grave;  for  when  one  of  these  dear  old  women  dies,  the  other 
will  follow  fast;  and  they,  too,  gone,  I  don't  think,  if  I  even  lived 
long,  I  should  ever  have  the  courage  or  wish  to  go  back  more. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  Cakltle. 

LETTER  180. 

T.   Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Auchtertool:  Monday,  Aug.  10,  1857. 
Oh,  my  dear! — I  am  so  sorry  to  think  of  your  having  been  all 
alone  there  with  Anne  'dreadfully  ill!'    As  it  has  turned  out,  it 

'  Mazzini. 

2  'That  damned  thing  called  the  "Milk  of  human  kindness."    Sea-captain 
thanked  God  he  had  nothing  of,'  &c.    Spedding's  story. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  67 

was  better  that  you  did  not  tell  me;  for  certainly  I  should  have  at 
once  flown  off  to  the  rescue,  and  arrived  only  to  complicate  your 
difficulties  by  falling  'dreadfully  ill'  myself.  Still,  the  confidence 
in  all  being  well  (figuratively  speaking),  so  long  as  I  hear  noth- 
ing to  the  contrarj^  is  done  for  by  this  concealment.  So  it  will  be 
for  my  peace  of  mind  to  be  making  no  further  move  than  is  not  a 
move  homeward.  My  consolation,  under  the  images  of  your  dis- 
comfort that  present  themselves,  is  of  that  melancholy  sort  pro- 
duced by  '  two  afflictions.'  '  I  have  been  in  such  a  way  myself  for 
the  last  week,  that  I  could  have  done  no  good  to  you,  Anne,  or 
myself  by  being  '  at  mj'  post ' !  The  physical  pain  has  been  over 
for  three  days,  but  followed  by  such  horrible  depression  of  spirits 
that  it  felt  as  if  one  degree  more  of  it  would  make  me  hang  or 
drown  mj'self.  I  could  not  write  to  you  anything  but  articulate 
moans  and  groans,  with  a  sprinkling  of  execrations!  And  so  I  pre- 
ferred letting  down  the  valve  and  consuming  my  own  smoke.  The 
last  two  nights  I  have  had  better  sleep;  and  to-day  I  feel  a  little 
more  up  to  living,  though  still  far  enough  from  '  doing  the  hoping  of 
the  family.' 

Walter  is  going  to  give  me  a  drive.  Since  Friday  I  have  not 
had  any  exercise.  Jeannie,  with  her  '  child  of 'miracle  '  and  its  two 
attendants,  is  still  expected  to-morrow,  and  I  have  fixed  my  depar- 
ture for  Thursday,  which  is  as  much  giving  in  to  family  proprieties 
as  could  reasonably  be  expected  of  me.  I  have  not  named  any 
time  for  my  stay  at  Morniugside — will  '  leave  it  open'  (as  you  say); 
but,  even  should  I  thrive  there,  I  don't  think  of  more  than  a  week. 
And  another  week  at  Sunny  Bank  will  make  as  much  '  outing'  as 
should  suffice  for  this  year!  For  the  rest,  I  may  give  myself  the 
same  comfort  about  my  travels  that  I  used  to  give  you  about  your 
horse,  when  you  were  saying  it  did  you  'next  to  no  good; '  I  'can't 
tell  how  much  worse'  I  should  have  been  had  I  stayed  through  all 
that  heat  of  London.  Certainly  I  have  had  nothing  to  suffer  from 
heat,  whatever  else. 

Oh,  those  Lulian  women!  It  seems  sinful  of  one  to  complain  of 
anything  in  face  of  their  dreadful  fate,  and  their  mothers  and  sis- 
ters at  home!  ^  It  is  difficult  to  reconcile  such  things  with  the  be- 
lief that  God  takes  care  of  every  individual  He  has  made! — Uiat 
'God  is  Love! '    Love?    It  isn't  much  like  a  world  ruled  by  Love, 


'  '  Two  afflictions.' — '  Deux  afflictions  mises  ensemble  peuvent  devenir  uue 
donsolation.' 
'  Indian  Mutiny,  and  such  news  of  its  horrors! 


68  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

this.    My  dear,  I  am  tempted  to  write  a  good  deal  of  blaspliemy 
just  at  this  moment.     '  Better  not! ' 

Thanks  for  writing  so  often.  If  you  saw  your  letters  received, 
you  would  think  them  important  to  me,  surely;  or  that  I  am  cer- 
tainly too  weak  and  nervous  '  for  anything  '  (as  they  say  in  Lanca- 
shire). The  last  two  or  three  letters  I  turned  quite  sick  at  the  sight 
of,  and  had  to  catch  at  a  chair  and  sit  down  trembling  before  I  could 
open  and  read  them.  This  is  '  a  plain  unvarnished  '  fact.  And  yet 
I  was  frightened  for  nothing  in  particular  that  I  could  have  put  into 
words.  If  you  had  put  a  loaded  pistol  to  me,  and  required  me  to 
tell  on  my  life  what  was  agitating  me  to  such  a  degree,  I  could 
have  said  nothing  more  lucid  than  that  I  didn't  know  whether  there 
mightn't  be  some  word  in  the  letter  that  I  would  rather  hadn't  been 
there,  or  that  the  tone  of  the  letter  might  show  you  were  ill  or  un- 
comfortable, or  that,  in  short,  I  couldn't  guess  whether  it  would 
make  me  gladder  or  sadder.  But  for  a  rational  creature  to  be  at  the 
point  of  fainting  with  no  more  reason  than  that!  '  A  poor,  misera- 
ble wretch  with  no  stamina! '  (as  old  Sterling  used  to  say). 

Address  to  Craigenvilla,  Morningside. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  C. 

LETTER  181. 

'Child  of  Glory,' absurd  phrase  in  somebody's  translation  from 
poor  Zacharias  Werner,  much  commented  upon  at  Comely  Bank  (I 
being  thought  concerned)  by  a  certain  Madame  Viaris,  zealous  and 
honest  Pomeranian,  wife  of  an  ex-Napoleon  officer,  whom  and  their 
one  boy  she  honourably  supported  by  teaching  German.  Reciting 
or  reading  in  a  high  shrieky  tone  the  original  of  Werner,  she  ex- 
claimed passionately,  at  every  turn,  '  But  where  is  the  Child  of 
Glory?'  and  got  no  answer,  except  in  assenting  smiles  and  long- 
continued  remembrance. — T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Auchtertool:  Thursday,  Aug.  13, 1857. 
My  packing  is  just  finished,  dear;  my  dinner  will  be  up  in  five 
minutes;  and  then  I  am  off  to  Kirkcaldy  to  catch  the  three  o'clock 
train.  The  day  is  very  calm,  so  I  hope  to  escape  sickness;  anyhow 
I  shall  be  glad  to  have  saved  myself  from  'The  Child  of  Glory,' 
and  its  court.  And  as  one  hopes  for  relief,  when  one  is  feverish  in 
bed,  from  turning  on  the  other  side,  so  I  look  forward  to  Morning- 
Bide  with  a  certain  thankfulness.  At  all  events  it  is  near  Sunny 
Bank,  and  Sunny  Bank  is  on  the  road  to  London. 


JANE  AVELSH  CARLYLE.  69 

Jeannie  and  her  suite  did  not  arrive  till  yesterdaj-.  The  baby  is 
about  three  finger-lengths  long;  the  two  nurses  nearly  six  feet  each. 
Five  packing  cases  came  before  them  by  the  carrier,  and  as  many 
portmanteaus  and  carpet-bags  in  the  carriage  with  them.  '  Did  you 
ever?'  '  No,  I  never!'  I  have  kept  my  temper  "with  all  this  non- 
sense -wonderfnlly,  to  outward  appearance  at  least.  But  it  is  only 
the  speedy  prospect  of  getting  far  away  from  it  that  has  enabled  me 
to  keep  from  bursting  out  into  swearing. 

I  hoped  to  have  had  leisure  to  write  at  decent  length  yesterday 
afternoon  or  to-day;  but  one  can't  get  on  with  anything  in  this 
infernal  hubbub.  So  I  just  scribble  this  little  note  to  put  in  the 
post-office  on  my  way  out  to  Morningside,  that  you  may  know  I 
have  '  crossed '  without  accident.  The  Morningside  post  leaves 
early  I  believe. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jaije  W.  Cakltle. 

LETTER  183. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

CraigenvOla:  Saturday,  Aug.  15, 1857. 

Now  then,  '  thanks  God,'  I  am  back  into  the  regions  of  common 
sense;  have  a  nice  little  '  my-foot-is-on-my-native-heath-and-my- 
name's-Macgregor '  feeling.  The  lungs  of  iny  soul  begin  to  play, 
after  having  been  all  1)ut  asphyxiated  with  tarnation  folly.  Such  a 
scene  of  waste,  and  fuss,  and  frivolity,  and  vanity,  and  vexation  of 
spirit,  I  desire  not  to  set  my  foot  in  again  on  this  side  of  time. 
'  All  sailing  down  the  stream  of  time  into  the  ocean  of  eternity,  for 
the  devil's  sake.  Amen!'  lam  sure  it  wasn't  my  irritability. 
Looking  back  on  it  coolly  from  here,  I  am  as  much  disgusted  a8 
when  I  was  in  it. 

I  was  taken  to  the  Kirkcaldy  station  instead^of  Burnt  Island,  Wal- 
ter having  business  there.  Of  course  the  first  person  I  saw  there 
was  Mr.  William  Swan;  and  he  was  'crossing'  too,  and  took  me 
under  his  ample  wing.  The  sea  was  as  smooth  as  a  looking-glass, 
and  I  wasn't  upset  the  least  in  the  world.  When  my  cab  stopped 
at  the  gate  here  everybody  ran  out  to  meet  me — three  aunts,  maid, 
and  the  very  cat,  with  whom  I  am  in  high  favour;  it  came  purring 
about  my  feet,  and  whipping  my  leg  with  its  tail;  but  you  needn't 
say  a  word  of  that  to  Nero.  I  respect  his  too  sensitive  feelings. 
They  made  me  quite  comfortable,  and  got  me  warm  tea  iu  no  time. 


70  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

We  had  just  finished  when  another  cab  drove  to  the  gate,  out  of 
which  leaped  John '  from  Richmond,  and  one  of  his  mother's  sisters. 
I  rushed  off  to  open  the  house-door  to  him,  and  you  should  have 
seen  how  he  started  and  stared.  He  looked  dreadfully  weak  still, 
poor  fellow !  and  coughed  much,  but  not  so  incessantly  as  when  we 
parted  in  London.  He  told  my  aunts  I  looked  better.  They  gave 
me  nice  porridge  to  supper,  and  plenty  of  milk — not  turned,  as 
every  drop  of  milk  and  cream  at  Auchtertool  was;  and  I  have  slept 
better  both  the  nights  I  have  been  here. 

By  the  time  I  get  done  with  this,  and  Sunny  Bank,  I  shall  be 
heartily  glad  to  get  home.  Betty  says,  'My  dear,  ye  just  toiled 
yersel  last  year;  oh,  ye  mauna  do  that  again! '  And  I  don't  mean 
to.  Nobody  knows  what  going  into  Dumfriesshire  is  for  me. 
Haddington  I  have  now  got  used  to — like  the  pigs — to  a  certain 
extent;  but  Thornhill!     Oh,  mercy! 

Grace  got  hold  of  your  proof-sheet '  yesterday,  and  shut  herself 
up  in  her  bedroom  to  read  it.  I  knocked  at  the  door  to  say  some- 
thing, and  she  opened  it  with  spectacles  on,  and  the  open  sheet  in 
her  hand,  looking  so  fierce  at  being  interrupted.  She  thought  I 
was  the  maid.  Her  opinion  is,  '  It  will  be  a  remarkably  interesting 
work, — really  very  interesting;  she  can  see  that  by  even  this  much.' 
They  all  send  you  their  kind  regards  and  say,  '  Tell  him  to  come 
down.'    Don't  they  wish  they  may  get  it. 

Your  letter  has  come  since  I  began  this.  And,  acli!  since  I 
began  this,  I  have  recollected  to-morrow  is  Sunday;  but  you  will 
get  it  on  Monday  morning.  I  sent  the  photograph  to  Isabella  a 
week  ago. 

Compliments  to  Ann;  and  no  end  of  kisses  to  Nero. 

Yours  afEectionately, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  183. 

This  is  the  last  (and  perhaps  the  first,  and  pretty  much  the  one) 
bit  of  pure  sunshine  that  visited  my  dark  and  lonesome,  and  in  the 
end  quite  dismal  and  inexpressible,  enterprise  of  Frederick;  the 
rest  was  all  darkness,  solitude;  air  leaden  coloured,  frozen  rain, 
sound  of  subterranean  torrents,  like  Balder's  ride  to  the  Death 
Kingdom,  '  needing,'  as  I  often  said,  the  obstinacy  of  ten  mules  for 
ten  or  thirteen  years  at  that  time  of  life.  Except  a  small  patch  of 
writing  by  Emerson,  this  is  the  only  bit  of  human  criticism  in 
which,  across  the  general  exaggeration,  I  could  discover  real  linea- 

*  Her  clever  cousin,  a  Hist.,  vol.  i.  and  ii„  Friedrich.— J.  A.  F. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  71 

merits  of  tbe  thing.  Veiy  memorable  was  this  of  her  to  me,  and 
■will  for  ever  be.  How  memorable  are  all  these  letter  of  1857,  and 
my  silent  moods  (deep  sorrow  and  toil,  tinted  with  gratitude  and 
hope)  in  those  summer  months!  Two  china  seats  (little  china 
barrel-shaped  things)  in  the  garden  here,  which  were  always  called 
'Noble-men,'  from  a  spiteful  remark  of  Anne's  about  the  purchase 
of  them.  My  midnight  '  smoke '  there,  looking  up  into  the  empy- 
rean and  the  stars.    Ah  me ! — T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Craigenvilla,  Edinburgh:  Monday,  Aug.  34, 1857. 

Oh,  my  dear !  What  a  magnificent  book  this  is  going  to  be !  The 
best  of  all  your  books.  I  say  so,  who  never  flatter,  as  you  are  too 
well  aware ;  and  who  am  '  the  only  person  I  know  that  is  always  in 
the  right! ' '  So  far  as  it  is  here  before  me,  I  find  it  forcible  and 
vivid,  and  sparkling  as  '  The  French  Revolution,'  with  the  geniality 
and  composure  and  finish  of  '  Cromwell ' — a  wonderful  combination 
of  merits!  And  how  you  have  contrived  to  fit  together  all  those 
different  sorts  of  pictures,  belonging  to  different  sorts  of  times,  as 
compactly  and  smoothly  as  a  bit  of  the  finest  mosaic!  Really  one 
may  say,  of  these  two  first  books  at  least,  what  Helen  said  of  the 
letters  of  her  sister  who  died — you  remember? — '  So  splendidly  put 
together  one  would  have  thought  that  hand  couldn't  have  written 
them!' 

It!  was  the  sheeti  that  hindered  me  from  writing  yesterday; 
though  I  doubt  if  a  letter  posted  at  Morningside  (the  Scotch  Campo 
Santo)  yesterday  (Sunday)  would  have  reached  you  sooner  than  if 
posted  to-day.  Certainly  it  is  a  devil  of  a  place  for  keeping  the 
Sunday,  this !  Such  preaching  and  fasting,  and  '  touting  and  pray- 
ing,'as  I  was  never  before  concerned  in!  But  one  never  knows 
whence  deliverance  is  to  come  any  more  than  misfortune.  I  was 
cut  out  of  all,  or  nearly  all,  my  difficulties  yesterday  by  the  simple 
providential  means  of — a  bowel  complaint!  It  was  reason  enough 
for  staying  away  from  cliurch;  excuse  enough  for  declining  to  be 
read  to;  and  the  loss  of  my  dinner  was  entirely  made  >ip  for  by  the 
loss  of  my  appetite!  Nothing  could  have  happened  more  oppor- 
tunely! Left  at  home  with  Pen  (the  cat),  when  they  had  gone 
every  one  to  her  different  ('  Place  of  Worshi]),'  I  opened  my  desk  to 
write  you  a  letter.  But  I  would  just  take  a  lo(jk  at  the  sheets  first. 
Miss  Jess  had  put  a  second  cover  on  the  parcel,  and  forwarded  it  by 

>  'Faut  avoiier,  ma  chfire,  je  ne  trouve  que  moi  qui  aie  toujours  raison,' 
said  Madame  Lafayette. 


73  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

railway  on  Saturday  night;  and  I  had  not  been  able  to  read  then, 
by  the  gaslight,  which  dazzles  my  eyes.  It  is  one  of  the  little 
peculiarities  of  this  house  that  there  isn't  a  candle  allowed  in  it  of 
any  sort — wax,  dip,  moulded,  or  composite!  Well,  I  took  up  the 
sheets  and  read  '  here  a  little  and  there  a  little,'  and  then  I  began  at 
the  beginning  and  never  could  stop  till  I  had  read  to  the  end,  and 
pretty  well  learnt  it  by  heart.  I  was  still  reading  when  Church 
came  out,  and  so  my  letter  got  nipt  in  the  bud.  If  it  is  so  interest- 
ing for  me,  who  have  read  and  heard  so  many  of  the  stories  in 
it  before,  what  must  it  be  to  others  to  whom  it  is  all  new?  the 
matter  as  well  as  the  manner  of  the  narrative!  Yes,  you  shall  see, 
it  will  be  the  best  of  all  your  books — and  small  thanks  to  it!  It 
has  taken  a  doing! 

I  suppose  you  are  roasting  again.  Here  there  has  been  no  such 
heat  since  I  came  north  as  in  the  last  three  days — mercury  at  75°  in 
the  shade  yesterday.  But  there  is  plenty  of  east  wind  to  keep  one 
from  suffocating,  provided  one  can  get  it  without  the  dust.  I  used 
to  fancy  Piccadilly  dusty;  but,  oh,  my,  if  you  saw  the  Morningside 
Road! 

I  must  tell  you  a  compliment  paid  me  before  I  conclude.  A  lady 
I  hadn't  seen  for  twenty  years  came  to  call  for  me.  '  You  were  ill 
I  heard,'  she  said.  'Ah,  yes,  it  is  easy  to  see  you  have  suffered! 
an  entire  wreck,  like  myself.'  Then,  looking  round  on  my  three 
aunts,  '  Indeed,  like  all  of  us !  ! ' 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  Caelyle. 

What  of  Lady  Sandwich?  You  never  mention  her.  Flemingi 
at  Raith !  I  should  have  been  as  astonished  to  meet  Mm  in  Kirk- 
caldy, as  to  meet  Tiger  Wull's^  'finest  blackcock  that  ever  stepped 
the  streets  of  Greenock ! ' 

LETTER  184. 

In  final  settlement  of  heritage  into  equal  parts,  John  Welsh, 
senior,  totally  omitted  her  {i.e.  her  father,  who  was  eldest,  and  had 
been  the  benefactor  and  stay  of  all  the  family),  of  which  I  remem- 
ber she  wrote  at  the  time  to  me,  nobly  sorrowful — not  ignobly  then 
or  ever,  in  that  case  or  in  any. — T.  C. 

>  Fleming— Old  fogie  of  fashion;  once  Charles  Buller's  'attached.' 
^  'Teeger  Willi,'  Tiger  Will— William  Dunlop,  a  well-known  cousin  of  hers^ 
one  of  the  strangest  men  of  his  age,  with  an  inexhaustible  sense  of  fun.    On« 
friend  promised  another  (according  to  Wall) '  the  finest  blacteock  that,'  &c. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  73 


T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Suany  Bank:  Friday,  August  28, 1857 

Here  I  am,  dear,  an  incirnation  of  '  the  bad  sixpence.'  Sixteen 
miles  nearer  home,  anyhow.  I  left  Edinburgh  at  two  yesterday, 
was  at  Longniddry  by  half-past  two,  and  didn't  get  to  Haddington 
till  four.  Such  complete  misunderstanding  exists  between  the 
little  Haddington  cross-train  and  all  other  trains,  that  one  may  lay 
one's  account  with  having  to  wait  always  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
at  the  least.  Then  the  waiting-room  is  '  too  stuffy  for  anything,' 
and  the  seated  structure  outside  expressly  contrived  for  catching 
cold  in;  so  that  one  is  fain  to  hang  about  on  one's  legs  in  space. 

The  bother  of  all  this,  taken  together  with  the  excitement  of  my 
rapturous  welcome,  kept  me  awake  in  a  high  fever,  till  my  doomed 
hour  of  four  o'clock  this  morning — or  something  kept  me  awake 
that  the  devil  only  knows!  It  was  such  an  arrival,  after  all:  the 
servants  waiting  outside  the  house,  smiling  and  saying,  '  Glad  to 
fee  you  back,  ma'am.'  Miss  Jess,  tumbling  into  my  arms  on  the 
threshold,  '  faintly  ejaculating '  (as  a  novelist  would  say),  '  Our 
Precious!'  'Our  Beloved!'  and  beyond  her  my  godmother,  ad- 
vancing with  her  hands  stretched  out,  groping  the  air,  and  calling 
out  in  an  excited  way,  '  Is  that  my  bairn? ' 

The  niece  and  grand-niece  were  discreet  enough  to  keep  upstairs 
till  '  the  first  flush  o'  meeting '  was  over,  but  were  very  cordial  when 
they  appeared.  To  their  credit  I  must  say,  they  might  easily  take 
offence  at  the  preference  shown  me.  Even  in  the  midst  of  these 
raptures  my  eye  sought  and  discovered  your  letter  on  the  usual 
table,  but  I  refrained  from  opening  it  (paragon  of  politeness  that  I 
was!)  till  dinner  was  over,  for  which  I  had  already  kept  them  wait- 
ing an  hour. 

They  think  me  looking  much  better.  Indeed,  my  first  fortnight 
at  Craigenvilla,  with  all  its  drawbacks  of  weekly  fasts,  inordinate 
reading  to,  gas,  and  water-cistern,  was  very  good  for  my  health, 
and,  on  the  whole,  pleasant  to  live.  I  cannot  say  which  of  my 
aunts  was  the  kindest  to  me — they  were  all  so  kind.  Grace  knitted 
me  a  pair  of  such  warm  stockings  while  I  was  there;  and  Ann 
flowered  me  a  most  lovely  collar;  and  Elizabeth  procured  a  whole 
calf's  stomach  (!)  for  me  (now  in  my  <  arpct-bag)  that  I  might  have 
curds  at  home,  as  it  was  the  thing  1  seemed  to  like  best  of  all  that 
they  gave  me  to  eat;  and  it  was  so  pleasant  talking  about  '  dear  ol  \ 
II.-4 


74  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

long  ago  '  with  those  who  I  felt  (for  the  first  time  perhaps)  had  in- 
terests in  common  with  me  in  it. 

It  was  better  so,  surely,  I  thought,  after  our  affectionate  parting; 
far  better  so  than  if  I  had  gone  to  law  with  them  about  that  frac- 
tion of  my  grandfather's  property  I  might  have  disputed,  and  even 
gained  it,  and  put  heart-burnings  and  resentment  between  my  own 
father's  sisters  and  me  for  evermore.  A  little  true  family  affection 
is  worth  a  great  many  hundreds  of  pounds,  especially  when  one 
isn't  needing  pounds! 

Since  writing  this  sheet  I  have  been  to  Dirleton  Castle,  and  it  is 
now  dinner-time,  and  I  must  take  my  letter  to  the  post  office  im- 
mediately after,  or  you  won't  hear  of  me  till  Tuesday. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  C. 

No  date  fixed  yet,  or,  indeed,  to  be  spoken  of  for  the  moment. 


LETTER  185. 
T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Sunny  Bank:  Sunday,  Aug.  30,  1857. 

I  am  reading  the  sheets  to  them — they  most  likely  will  not 
live  to  see  the  finished  book.  You  never  saw  more  ardent  listeners! 
My .  godmother,  with  her  head  bent  forward,  hearkening  with 
her  blind  eyes,  as  well  as  her  ears,  might  sit  for  a  picture  of  Atten- 
tion. And  every  now  and  then  one  or  other  asks  some  question  or 
makes  some  remark,  that  shows  how  intelligently  they  listen.  Miss 
Jess  said  one  good  thing:  '  To  look  merely  to  the  wording — it  is  so 
brief,  so  concise,  that  one  would  expect  some  obscurity  in  the  nar- 
rative, or  at  least  that  it  would  need  a  great  effort  of  attention  to 
understand  it;  instead  of  which  the  meaning  is  as  clear  as  glass!' 
And  Miss  Donaldson  said,  '  I  see  more  than  ever  in  this,  my  dear, 
what  I  have  always  seen  in  Mr.  Carlyle's  books,  and  what  I  think 
distinguishes  him  from  all  the  writers  of  the  present  day — a  great 
love  of  truth;  and,  what  is  more'  (observe  the  fine  discrimination!) 
'a  perfect  detestation  of  lies! ' 

I  was  afraid,  having  to  read  in  a  voice  so  high  pitched,  my  read- 
ing would  not  do  justice  to  the  thing;  but  Miss  Donaldson  asked 
me  last  night,  '  My  dear,  does  Mr.  Carlyle  read  what  he  writes  to 
you  bit  by  bit?'  'Oh,  dear,  no!  he  does  not  like  reading  aloud.' 
'  Then  I  suppose  you  read  it  often  over  to  yourself?    For  I  was 


JAKE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  -76 

noticing  that  in  reading  those  sheets,  you  did  it  so  natural-like,  just 
as  if  it  was  coming  out  of  your  own  head! ' 

I  was  dreaming  last  night  about  going  to  some  strange  house, 
among  strange  people,  to  make  representations  about  cocks!  I  went 
on  my  knees  at  last,  weeping,  to  an  old  man  with  a  cast-metal  face 
and  grey  hair;  and  while  I  was  explaining  all  about  how  j'ou  were 
an  author,  and  couldn't  get  sleep  for  these  new  cocks,  my  auditor 
flounced  off,  and  I  became  aware  lie  was  the  man  who  had  three 
serpent-daughters,  and  kept  people  in  glass  bottles  in  Hoffman's 
Tale! '     I  forgot  his  name,  but  knew  it  well  enough  in  my  dream. 

A  kiss  to  Nero.  Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  186. 
T.  Carlyle,   Chelsea. 

Sxmny  Bank:  Wednesday,  September  2,  1857. 

Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!  you  give  me  the  idea  of  a  sensible  Chris- 
tian man  making  himself  into  a  spinning  dervish.  Oh,  '  depend 
upon't,  the  slower  thou  ridest,  the  faster  thou'It  get,'  &c.  These 
dinings  'before  sunset,'  teas  '  about  ten,' — don't  I  know  what  comes 
of  all  that,  and  that  what  comes  of  it  is  '  eventually,'  'rale  mental 
agony  in  your  own  inside '?**  hardly  to  be  assuaged  by  blue  pill 
and  castor  oil  at  a  great  expense  of  inward  life.  If  I  hadn't  been 
coming  home  at  any  rate,  your  last  letter  would  have  determined 
me  to  come,  just  to  put  a  spoke  in  your  wheel,  that  you  mayn't 
like  a  furious  grinding-stone,  fly  all  off  in  sand. 

It  will  be  a  great  nuisance  to  you,  I  know,  when  you  have  got 
the  bridle  of  time  shaken  off  your  head,  about  your  heels,  and  your 
face  to  the  wind,  to  be  again  in  harness  with  a  little  steady-going 
animal,  that  looks  to  have  her  corn  and  her  mashes  regular,  or  lies 
down  in  the  road. 

But  bless  you,  if  you  hadn't  had  a  couuter-puU  on  3^ou  in  tlie  di- 
rection of  order,  and  regularity  and  moderation,  and  all  that  stupid 
sort  of  thing,  where  would  you  have  been  by  this  time?  Tell  nie 
that!  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  were  home,  that  horrid  journey  over! 
Eliza  Donaldson  says,  'Not  like  the  journey,  Mrs.  Carlyle?  liow 
odd ! '    I  declare  it  is  a  consolation  for  liaving  one's  nerves  '  all 

'  Archh-arius  Lindhorst :  '  Oh,  my  beautiful  little  darling!  was  there  ever  a 
prettier  dream,  bad  or  good?  ' 
*  Servant  Helen's  phrase. 


76  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

gone  to  smithers,'  to  see  how  stolid  and  unlovable  good  health 
makes  people,  with  the  best  intentions  too. 

I  have  broken  to  Miss  Jess  the  fact  that  I  am  going  next  week, 
on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday ;  and  before  that  time  I  shall  surely  have 
made  up  my  mind  about  the  train.  Never  fear,  but  I  shall  go  by 
first-class  this  time.  Onlj'  which  first-class?  Haddington  is  most 
inconveuientlj^  situated  as  to  the  railway,  which  is  the  reason  of 
those  strange  delays  of  letters.  No  express  train  stops  at  Longnid- 
dry.  Well,  well,  as  Nancy  at  Craigenputtock  said  of  Elliot's  de- 
scent from  the  roof,  '  Pooh!  his  own  weight  will  bring  him  down.'' 
I  shall  get  home  surely  by  some  force  of  gravitation  or  other. 

I  haven't  got  through  the  American  novel  j^et.  It  is  a  curious 
book;  very  nearly  a  good  book  but  spoiled,  like  old  Sterling's 
famous  carriage,  by  pretending  to  be  too  many  different  things  all 
in  one.  It  is  '  Quinland  '  (a  novel),  or  it  is  '  Varieties  of  American 
Life.'  Then  it  is  an  allegory  (himself  tells  us  that)  symbolising  the 
Marriage  of  Genius  and  Religion.  Then  it  is  a  note-book  of  Mr. 
White,  or  White's  opinions  of  all  the  authors  he  has  studied,  and 
all  the  general  reflections  he  has  ever  made.  Then  it  is  an  Ameri- 
can Wilhelm  Meister.  Then  it  is  Mr.  White's  realised  Ideal  of — a 
new  Christian  Bible!  And,  finally,  one  doesn't  know  what  it  is  or 
is  not ;  any  more  than  whether  the  style  is  a  flagrant  imitation  of 
j^ou,  or  of  Goethe,  or  of  Jean  Paul,  or  of  Emerson.  Happily  it 
'isn't  of  the  slightest  consequence  '  which. 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER   187. 

Printing  of  Friedrich,  first  two  volumes,  now  well  advanced. 
Christmas  was  spent  among  the  most  refractory  set  of  proof  sheets 
1  expect  in  this  world. 

To  Mrs.  Austin,  tTie  Gill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Christmas  Day,  1857. 
My  dear  Mary, — I  understood  that  your  brother  would  write 
himself  to-day,  to  announce  the  save  arrival  of  your  box,  the  con- 
tents of  which  were  exhibited  to  him  in  succession  last  night. 
When  it  came  to  the  goose,  carried  in  on  my  arms  like  a  strange 
new  kind  of  baby  (with  that  belly-baud  about  it!),  he  burst  into 
such  a  laugh  I     '  That  fellov/  I  think  has  got  his  quietus '  (he  said). 

»  Our  '  jack-of -all-trades '  servant. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  77 

But  now  he  has  just  come  down,  and  is  off  for  his  ride,  and  -when 
I  asked  '  had  he  written  to  Mary? '  he  exclaimed  wildly  that  he  had 
'  fifteen  hours  of  the  most  awful  work  of  correcting  proofs  ahead 
of  him,  that  I  who  had  nothing  to  do  should  have  written  to  Mary ! ' 
With  all  the  pleasure  in  life!  had  I  known  in  time,  instead  of 
within  just  half  an  hour  of  post-time — from  which  is  to  be  sub- 
tracted ten  minutes  for  putting  on  my  things  and  running  to  the 
post-office!  But  better  a  line  than  no  letter  at  all  till  to-morrow — 
you  thinking  the  while  that  those  blessed  birds  may  be  coming  to 
harm  from  being  too  long  on  the  road ! 

No,  my  dear!  one  'Chucka'is  boiling  at  this  moment  for  the 
master's  dinner  (I  dine  on  anything  at  two  o'clock;  not  being  up  to 
waiting  for  Mr.  C.'s  six  or  seven  o'clock  dinners).  But  I  had  one 
of  the  eggs  to  my  breakfast,  and  it  was  the  very  best  and  biggest  I 
ever  ate  in  my  life!  There  were  only  two  broken,  and  not  wasted 
even  these;  I  lifted  up  the  yolks,  which  lay  quite  round  and  whole, 
in  a  spoon  (for  puddings). 

I  wish  I  had  begun  in  time,  for  I  had  plenty  of  things  to  say; 
but  I  must  keep  for  this  time  to  mere  acknowledgment  of  your 
present — another  day  I  may  tell  you  the  rest. 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlylb. 

LETTER  188. 

She  returned  to  me  Wednesday  evening,  September  9,  evidently 
a  little  better,  says  the  record.  Her  winter  was  none  of  the  best; 
end  of  the  year  she  is  marked  very  feckless,  though  full  of  spirit. 
I,  deep  all  the  while  in  Frederick  proofs  and  fasheries,  hoping  to 
have  all  ended — of  these  two  volumes — by  the  end  of  May,  which 
term  in  effect  was  nearly  kept. 

In  January  1858,  we  had  engaged  to  a  week  at  the  Grange  with 
Lord  Ashburton,  from  which  my  poor  Jeannie  (trouble  with  ser- 
vants, &c.,  superadding  itself)  was  obliged  to  excuse  herself  and 
send  me  alone,  who  only  stayed  three  days.  This,  her  dear  letter 
during  these,  which  except  two  tragic  moments — first  entrance  to 
the  empty  drawing-room  in  silence  of  dusk;  then  another  evening 
Lady  Sandwich  and  Miss  Baring  new  hanging  the  pictures  there 
— have  left  no  trace  whatever  with  me. — T.  C. 


T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  the  Grange. 

Cheyne  Row:  Monday,  January  16, 1858. 
My  dear!  '  Ye  maun  joost  excuse  us  the  day ! '    I  have  an  aching 
head  come  to  fraternise  with  my  aching  side,  and  between  the  two 


tS  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

am  '  very  much  detached ; '  can't  easily  sit  still  to  write.  For  the 
rest,  even  Geraldine  couldn't  say  of  me  that  I  am  '  much  happier 
for  your  being  away.'  I  feel  as  forlorn  as — 'the  maiden'  that 
'milked  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn.'  My  sickness  and  help- 
lessness striving  to  '  keep  up  its  dignity,'  and,  what  is  more  to  the 
purpose,  to  keep  its  temper  in  this  atmosphere  of  sj'stematic  inso- 
lence and  arsenical  politeness,  is  one  of  those  sufferings  through 
which  I  suppose  man  (meaning  woman)  is  '  made  perfect,'  or  ought 
to  be. 

Then  the  poor  little  dog,  who  was  to  have  been  'company  to 
me,'  is  not  recovered  from  the  illness  he  took  before  you  left.  He 
seemed  coming  to  himself  yesterday  forenoon,  though  still  he  had 
not  tasted  food  since  the  last  you  gave  him ;  and  I  stupidly  let  Mr. 
Piper  take  him  to  Fulham.  He  came  home — carried  most  of  the 
way,  not  able  to  keep  his  legs — his  ej^es  extinct,  his  legs  stretched 
out  cold  and  stiff.  He  has  lain  ever  since  without  moving,  but  he 
now  looks  at  me  when  I  stroke  him,  and  his  posture  is  more  natu- 
ral. You  may  fancy  how  many  lucifers  I  lighted  through  the 
night,  when  I  felt  him  quite  cold,  and  couldn't  hear  him  breathing! 
Poor  wee  Nero!  how  glad  I  should  be  to  hear  him  snoring,  or  see- 
ing him  over-eating  himself  again! 

Please  thank  Lady  Sandwich  for  the  dear  little  letter  I  had  from 
her  this  morning.-  I  don't  say  'dear'  in  the  Lady  A.  sense,  but 
really  meaning  it.  I  will  write  to  her  when  I  have  got  my  head  a 
little  above  all  this  troubled  water.  Also  thank  Lord  Ashburton 
for  the  game  (hare  and  pheasants).  It  gives  one  a  taste  of  the 
pleasures  of  patronage,  having  such  things  to  give  away. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lowe  called  to  ask  for  me  yesterday  morning 
(Sunday)  between  ten  and  eleven,  on  their  way  to  '  the  Cottage.' 
Happily  they  found  me  in  no  muddle.  In  the  middle  of  the  day 
Geraldine  walked  in!  She  couldn't  have  managed  to  reappear  at  a 
more  propitious  moment  for  having  her  judgment  commuted. 

Just  one  packet  of  proofs.  Though  there  is  no  sheet,  I  send  it, 
in  case  you  should  stay  over  Wednesday.  Don't  hurry  for  me  if 
you  get  good  of  the  change.  It  will  be  all  in  my  own  interest  your 
staying,  if  you  come  back  better  for  it. 

With  Geraldine  at  hand,  I  don't  suffer  the  same  practical  incon- 
venience from  being  confined  to  the  house.  I  can  send  her  on  any 
message. 

Love  to  Lady  Sandwich. 

Yours  ever, 

Jane  Welsh  Carlyle. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  79 

For  God's  sake  don't  put  such  great  platches  of  black  wax  on 
your  letters,  to  me  at  least.  My  heart  turned  in  my  throat  this 
morning;  I  thought  it  was  some  hori'id  news  from  Annandale. 

LETTER  189. 

Beginning  of  June,  Friedrich  quite  off  my  hands.  There  were 
the  usual  speculations  about  sea  quarters,  covert  from  the  heat,  &c. 
(miserable  feature  of  London  life,  needing  to  be  disancliored  every 
year,  to  be  made  comparatively  a  nomadic,  quasi-Calmuck  life). 
After  much  calculating,  it  is  settled  I  am  to  go  first  to  the  Gill, 
afterwards  to  Germany,  a  second  time;  she,  after  settling  home 
botherations,  to  go  for  Nithsdale,  Mrs.  Pringle,  of  Lann  Hall,  press- 
ing to  be  her  hostess.  Evening  of  June  24,  witli  four  fat  Glasgow 
gentlemen,  submissively  astonished  at  my  passion  for  fresh  air,  set 
off,  ride  vigilant  all  night — the  last  time  of  my  entering  Scotland 
with  anything  of  real  hope,  or  other  than  affectionate  gloom  and 
pain.— T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Gill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Frid»y,  June  S5,  1858. 

'And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  day!'  'Let 
alone,'  with  a  sort  of  vengeance.  Exhausted  human  nature  could 
not  desire  more  perfect  letting  alone!  It  was  wonderful  to  reflect, 
while  breakfasting  at  nine,  that  you  had  probably  already  break- 
fasted at  the  Gill  in  Scotland.  After  all,  railways  are  a  great  thing, 
only  inferior  to  'the  Princess  of  China's  "flying  bed,"'  Prince 
Houssain's  '  fljing  carpet,'  and  Fortunatus's  '  wishing  cap.'  Trans- 
ported over  night  from  here  to  there;  from  Chancellor's  dung-heap, 
the  '  retired  cheesemonger's  dogs,  and  two-pence  worth  of  nominal 
cream,'  away  to  '  quiet,  fresh  air,'  and  '  milk  without  limit,'  in  one 
night!  If  it  weren't  for  the  four  fat  men  in  the  carriage  with  you, 
wouldn't  it  be  like  something  in  a  fairy  tale? 

Don't  let  your  enjoyment  of  'the  country'  be  disturbed  by 
thoughts  of  me  still  '  in  town.'  I  won't  stay  here  longer  than  I 
find  it  good  for  me.  But  what  I  feel  to  need  at  present  is,  above 
all  things  human  and  divine,  rest  from  'mental  worry;'  and  no- 
where is  there  such  fair  outlook  of  that  for  me  as  just  at  home 
under  the  present  conditions.  '  The  cares  of  bread ' '  have  been  too 
heavy  for  me  lately;  and  the  influx  of  'cousins''  most  wearing; 


'  Mazzini,  on  his  Plot  expeditions. 

'  Maggie  and  Mary,  of  Auchtertool,  had  been  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  for  winter; 
lately  home  again. 


80  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

and  to  see  you  constantly  discontented,  and  as  much  so  with  me, 
apparently,  as  with  all  other  things,  when  I  have  neither  the 
strength  and  spirits  to  bear  up  against  your  discontent,  nor  the  ob- 
tuseness  to  be  indifferent  to  it — that  has  done  me  more  harm  than 
you  have  the  least  notion  of.  You  have  not  the  least  notion  what 
a  killing  thought  it  is  to  have  put  into  one's  heart,  gnawing  there 
day  and  night,  that  one  ought  to  be  dead,  since  one  can  no  longer 
make  the  same  exertions  as  formerly;  that  one  was  taken  'for  bet- 
ter,' not  by  any  means  '  for  worse;'  and,  in  fact,  that  the  only  feas- 
ible and  diguified  thing  that  remains  for  one  to  do  is  to  just  die,  and 
be  done  with  it. ' 

Better,  if  possible,  to  recover  some  health  of  body  and  mind,  you 
say.  Well,  yes;  if  possible.  In  that  view  I  go  with  Neuberg  this 
evening  to  view  a  lield  of  hay. 

Mrs.  Welsh  did  not  come  yesterday — only  a  note  from  her  to  say 
she  and  John  would  be  here  on  Saturday  afternoon.  Her  journey 
to -Scotland  was  'all  up,'  she  said;  but  no  reason  given.  Not  a 
word  about  the  dear  horse. **  So  I  wrote  to  bid  her  remember  to 
bring  the  receipt  for  him  on  Saturday.  I  shall  regret  his  being  sent 
for,  for  I  foresee  that  if  he  goes  he  will  be  left  behind,  as  the  short- 
est way  of  settling  the  matter. 

I  have  not  spoken  to  a  soul  since  you  left  but  Charlotte;^  only 
Lady  Airlie  called  yesterday,  and  I  was  out.  Charlotte  is  as  kind 
and  attentive  as  possible,  and  her  speech  is  remarkably  sensible. 
She  was  observing  yesterday  morning  that  '  master  looked  rather 
dull  at  going  away,  and  I  can't  say,'  she  added,  '  that  you  look  par- 
ticularly brilliant  (!)  since  his  departure.' 

I  have  got  Mrs.  Newnhaui's*  little  sick  daughter  lying  out  on  the 
green  to-day  reading  fairy  tales,  to  her  intense  delight.  Our  green 
to  her  is  grander  than  the  Grange  grounds  to  us. 

No  letters  for  you  but  one  from  Oxford,  requiring  information 
about  India.^  Nero  is  much  astonished  that  j^ou  do  not  come  down 
in  the  mornings  to  take  him  out.     He  runs  upstairs  and  then  down 

*  Alas !  alas !  sinner  that  I  am ! 

»  Poor  horse  '  Fritz,'  beautiful,  stout,  and  loyal,  had  been  nearly  killed  (on 
arsenic  diet)  by  a  villain  here,  and  was  now  roaming  in  grass  near  Richmond. 

*  The  new  maiJ,  a  fine  little  Chelsea  creature— com-ageously,  with  excellent 
discernment,  and  with  very  good  success,  now  taken  on  trial. 

*  An  astonishingly  good  old  cook,  who  sometimes  officiates  here— curious 
Chelsea  specimen  too. 

*  Sent  that  to  John  Mill  (after  long  years  of  abeyance),  who  kindly  granted 
the  young. man  'a  few  minutes'  interview.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  81 

to  me,  and  stares  up  in  my  face,  sajdng  as  plainly  as  possible,  '  did 

you  ever? ' 

Give  tiiem  at  the  Gill  my  kind  regards. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 
LETTER  190. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Sunday,  June  27, 1858. 

Dearest  Mary, — It  is  so  long  since  I  wrote,  and  I  have  been  so 
bothered  and  bewildered  in  the  interval,  that  I  can't  recollect 
whether  it  is  your  turn  or  my  own  to  write.  Butjwhosesoever  turn 
it  is,  the  silence  is  equally  needing  to  be  broken,  and  if  I  am  the 
delinquent,  I  can  only  say  I  have  had  plenty  of  excuse  for  all  my 
sins  of  omission  of  late  weeks.  First,  my  dear,  the  heat  has  really 
been  nearer  killing  me  than  the  cold.  London  heat!  nobody  knows 
what  that  is  till  having  tried  it;  so  breathless,  and  sickening,  and 
oppressive,  as  no  other  heat  I  ever  experienced  is!  Then  the  quan- 
tities of  visitors  rushing  about  me  at  this  season,  complicated  by  an 
influx  of  cousins,  to  be  entertained  on  special  terms,  have  taken  out, 
in  talk,  my  dregs  of  strength  and  spirit! 

Then  Mr.  Carlyle,  in  the  collapse  from  the  strain  of  his  book,  and 
the  biliousness  developed  by  the  heat,  has  been  so  wild  to  '  get  away,' 
and  so  incapable  of  determining  where  to  go,  and  when  to  go,  that 
living  beside  him  has  been  like  living  the  life  of  a  weathercock,  in 
a  high  wind,  blowing  from  all  points  at  once! — sensibility  super- 
added!— so  long,  at  least,  as  he  involved  me  in  his  'dissolving 
views.'  The  imaginary  houses,  in  different  parts  of  the  kingdom, 
in  which  I  have  had  to  look  round  me  on  bare  walls,  and  apply  my 
fancy  to  furnishing  with  the  strength  I  have  (!)  (about  equal  to  my 
canary's,  which,  every  now  and  then,  drops  off  the  perch  on  its 
back,  and  has  to  be  lifted  up),  would  have  driven  me  crazy,  I  think, 
if  one  day  I  hadn't  got  desperate,  and  burst  out  crying.  Until  a 
woman  cries  men  never  think  she  can  be  suffering.  Bless  their 
blockheadism!  However,  when  I  cried,  and  declared  I  was  not 
strong  enough  for  all  that  any  more,  Mr.  C.  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
fact,  so  far  as  to  decide  that,  for  the  present,  he  would  go  to  his 
sister's  (the  Gill),  and  let  me  choose  my  own  course  after.  And  to 
the  Gill  he  went  last  Wednesday  night,  and  since  then  I  have  been 
resting,  and  already  feel  better  for  the  rest,  even  without  '  change 
of  air.' 

II.-4* 


83  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Whdt  my  owa  course  will  be  I  haven't  a  notion !  The  main 
point  in  my  system  of  rest  is,  to  postpone  not  only  all  doing,  but  all 
making  up  my  mind  to  do;  to  reduce  myself  as  much  as  possible  to 
a  state  of  vacant,  placid  idiotcy.  That  is  the  state,  I  am  sure,  a 
judicious  doctor  would  recommend  for  the  moment.  When  the 
time  comes  for  wishing  for  change  and  action,  it  will  be  time  to  de- 
cide where  to  go.  Meanwhile  I  shall  see  what  being  well  let  alone 
will  do  for  my  health.  All  the  cousins  are  gone  now,  the  visitors 
goiug,  no  household  cares  ('  cares  of  bread,'  as  Mazzini  calls  them), 
for,  with  no  husband  to  study,  housekeeping  is  mere  play,  and  my 
young  maid  is  a  jewel  of  a  creature.  It  seems  to  me  the  best  chance 
I  have  had  for  pickingjup  a  little  strength  this  good  while. 

I  suppose  you  will  be  having  my  aunt  Ann  again  soon.  I  hear 
from  them  very  seldom.  I  should  like  so  much  if  I  could  be  set 
down  there  in  '  the  Princess  of  China's  flying  bed,'  or  on  'Prince 
Houssain's  flying  carpet,'  to  land  at  Thornhill,  before  the  fine 
weather  end;  but  the  length  of  journey  by  rail  terrifies  me,  especially 
the  length  of  the  journey  back;  Mrs.  Pringle,  I  dare  say,  half  ex- 
pects me  to  visit  her  in  August,  for  I  have  never  said  positively  I 
would  not,  and  she  has  pressed  my  coming  most  kindly.  But  to 
say  where  I  will  not  go  would  require  consideration  and  decision, 
as  well  as  saying  where  I  will  go.  And,  as  I  have  said,  I  mean  to 
be  an  idiot  for  a  time,  postponing  all  mental  effort. 

Do  write  to  me;  I  don't  feel  to  know  about  you  at  all.  Love  to 
the  doctor. 

Tour  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Cablylb. 

LETTER  191. 

T.  Carlyle,  The  Gill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Sunday  night,  July  4, 1858. 
Achf  what  a  three  days  and  three  nights  I  have  had,  dear! 
Jonah  in  the  whale's  belly  could  not  have  had  worse.  '  Brighton ' 
still  I  suppose!  I  was  not  to  get  off  from  that  adventure  with  only 
one  night  and  day  of  torture.  I  must  have  caught  cold  that  day, 
and  had  it  unpronounced  in  my  nerves  till  Friday,  when  it  broke 
out  in  sore  throat,  headache,  faceache,  rheumatism  all  over,  retch- 
ing and  fever!  Certainly  I  had  done  nothing  after  to  give  me  a 
cold.  But  that  was  folly  enough,  I  knew  quite  well  that  I  was 
not  fit  for  such  an  excursion ;  and  yet  I  went,  '  going  whether  I 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  83 

could  or  not.' '   My  only  comfort  was  to  be  at  borne,  and  not  trans- 
acting tbese  horrors  on  a  visit,  or  in  a  wretched  sea-side  lodging. 

I  had  some  sleep  this  morning,  and  the  cold  seems  now  concen- 
trating in  my  head — not  in  my  chest,  which  would  have  been  a 
drearier  prospect.  Don't  disturb  yourself  about  my  being  ill  in 
your  absence— that  is  to  say,  about  the  absence  part  of  it.  Outside 
of  myself  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  Charlotte  is  much  kinder 
and  helpfuller  than  Anne  was,  and  thecomfort  of  talking  with  you 
now  and  then  would  have  been  counterbalanced  in  my  present  cir- 
cumstances by  '  the  cares  of  bread. '  Besides,  I  don't  mean  to  be  ill 
long,  and  once  rid  of  this,  won't  I  take  care  how  I  expose  myself 
and  over-fatigue  myself  again ! 

I  can  have  as  much  society  as  I  like,  but  I  prefer  none  when  I  am 
ill;  and  I  have  these  delightful  volumes  of  Tourgueneff's  to  amuse  me 
when  I  am  up  to  being  amused.  I  am  gone  '  into  the  country  '  '  at 
the  shortest  notice  and  on  the  cheapest  terms '  (as  the  undertakers' 
sign-boards  have  it).  I  have  made  the  sideboard  and  large  sofa 
change  places,  arranged  the  back  parlour  as  a  boudoir,  filled  up 
the  folding  doors  with  the  screen,  and  look  out  on  nothing  but 
green  leaves  and  the  '  nobleman's  seats! ''  Moreover,  the  dunghill 
is  quite  suppressed ;  I  have  not  felt  a  whiff  of  it  since  the  letter  was 
written.  To  be  sure,  the  hot  weather  went  with  you ;  the  last  week 
has  been  like  winter.  I  have  a  fire,  so  has  Mrs.  Hawkes,  and  the 
fur  rug  is  again  in  action.  I  have  surely  more  amusing  things  to 
tell  you ;  but  I  must  leave  off  for  to-night.  I  am  dead  tired  already. 
Besides,  to-moiTow  I  may  have  a  letter  from  you  to  answer.  Don't 
forget  to  tell  me  the  address  to  put  on  the  newspaper  for  America. 

Monday. 

'Nothing  for  Craigenputtock  to-day.''  Awell!  you  waited,  I 
suppose,  for  an  answer,  you  cross  thing!  And  if  my  sore  throat 
on  Friday  had  turned  to  '  the  sore  throat,'  as  I  was  half  expecting, 
you  might  have  waited  long  enough,  and  then  wouldn't  you  have 
been  'vaixed'f 

Neuberg  came  on  Saturday  evening,  and,  being  told  I  couldn't 
see  anyone,  he  went  up  to  the  study  '  to  get  some  books.'  Half  an 
Lour  after,  I  was  going  to  my  bedroom,  and  came  on  him,  standing 
quite  noiselessly  on  the  landing-place,  so  I  had  to  take  him  in  and 


1  Groom's  phrase  about  a  horse  of  mine. 

2  China  barrel-shaped  things  (supra),  p.  71. 
'  Postmaster  at  Dumfries  (painfully  civil). 


84  LETTERS  AND  MEMOEIALS  OF 

give  him  a  cup  of  my  tea,  which  was  ready;  and  then  he  had  the 
sense  to  go. 

I  am  rather  better  to-day;  had  about  four  hours'  sleep,  and  came 
down  to  breakfast.  It  is  still  very  cold.  I  look  forward  to  spending 
the  day  under  my  fur  rug,  reading  Tourgueneflf— nobody  to  be  let 
in  but  Mrs.  Hawkes,  who  will  come  at  four  o'clock.  I  have  a  nice 
little  fire  opposite  me  in  my  back-room,  and  the  prospect  of  the 
'nobleman's  seat.'  Yours  ever 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER   192. 

KOTES    OP    A  SlTTER-STILIi. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbng. 

Chelsea:  Sunday  night,  July  11, 1858. 

Botkin  (what  a  name!),  your  Russian  translator,  has  called. 
Luckily  Charlotte  had  been  forewarned  to  admit  him  if  he  came 
again.  He  is  quite  a  different  type  from  Tourgueneff,  though  a 
tall  man,  this  one  too.  I  should  say  he  must  be  a  Cossack— not 
that  I  ever  saw  a  Cossack  or  heard  one  described,  instinct  is  all  I 
have  for  it.  He  has  flattened  high-boned  cheeks— a  nose  flattened 
towards  the  point— small, very  black,  deep-set  eyes,  with  thin  semi- 
circular eyebrows— a  wide  thin  mouth— a  complexion  white-grey, 
and  the  skin  of  his  face  looked  thick  enough  to  make  a  saddle  of! 
He  does  not  possess  himself  like  Tourgueneff,  but  bends  and  ges- 
ticulates like  a  Frenchman. 

He  burst  into  the  room  with  wild  expressions  of  his  '  admiration 
for  Mr.  Carlyle.'  I  begged  him  to  be  seated,  and  he  declared  '  Mr. 
Carlyle  Avas  the  man  for  Russia.'  I  tried  again  and  again  to  'en- 
chain '  a  rational  conversation,  but  nothing  could  I  get  out  of  him 
but  rhapsodies  about  you  in  the  frightfullest  English  that  I  ever 
heard  out  of  a  human  head!  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  (as  he  told  me) 
he  reads  English  much  better  than  he  speaks  it,  else  he  must  have 
produced  an  inconceivable  translation  of  'Hero  Worship.'  Such 
as  it  is,  anyhow,  '  a  large  deputation  of  the  Students  of  St.  Peters- 
burg '  waited  on  him  (Botkin),  to  thank  him  in  the  strongest  terms 
for  having  translated  for  them  'Hero  Worship,'  and  made  known 
to  them  Carlyle.  And  even  the  young  Russian  ladies  now  reaJ 
'Hero  Worship,"  and  'unnerstants  it  thor— lie.'  He  was  all  in  a 
perspiration  when  he  went  away,  and  so  was  I! 
I  should  like  to  have  asked  him  some  questions;  for  example. 


i 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  85 

how  he  came  to  know  of  your  Works  (he  had  told  me  he  had  had 
to  send  to  England  for  them  'at  extreem  cost'),  but  it  would  have 
been  like  asking  a  cascade!  The  best  that  I  could  do  for  hini  I 
did.  I  gave  him  a  photograph  of  you,  and  put  him  up  to  carrying 
it  in  the  top  of  his  hat! 

I  don't  think  I  ever  told  you  the  surprising  visit  I  had  from 
David  Aitken '  and  Bess.  I  was  so  ill  when  I  wrote  after  that  all 
details  were  omitted.  Charlotte  had  come  to  say  one  of  the  latch- 
keys was  refusing  to  act.  I  went  to  see  what  the  matter  was,  and 
when  we  opened  the  door,  behold,  David  at  the  bottom  of  the 
steps,  and  Bess  preparing  to  knock!  'Is  this  Mrs.  Carlyle's?' 
she  asked  of  myself  while  I  was  gazing  dumfoundered.  My 
goodness!'  cried  I.  At  the  sound  of  my  voice  she  knew  me — not 
till  then — though  at  my  own  door!  and  certainly  the  recognition 
was  the  furthest  from  complimentary  I  ever  met.  She  absolutely 
staggered,  screaming  out,  'God  preserve  me,  Jane!  That  you?' 
Pleasant!  David  coming  up  the  steps  brought  a  little  calm  into 
the  business,  and  the  call  got  itself  transacted  better  or  worse. 

They  were  on  their  way  home  from  Italy .  Both  seemed  rather 
more  human  than  last  time,  especially  David,  whose  face  had  taken 
an  expression  of  'Peace  on  earth  and  good-will  unto  men.'  Bess 
had  lost  a  tooth  or  two,  was  rather  thinner,  and  her  eyes  hollower; 
otherwise  much  the  same. 

They  invited  me  very  kindly  to  Minto,  and  he  seemed  really  in 
earnest. 

July  1$. 

Surely,  dear,  the  shortest,  most  unimportant  note  you  can  write 
is  worth  a  bit  of  paper  all  to  itself?  Such  a  mixed  MS.,  with  flaps 
too,  may  be  a  valuable  literary  curiosity  'a  hundred  years  hence,' 
but  is  a  trial  of  patience  to  the  present  reader,  who,  on  eagerly 
opening  a  letter  from  you,  had  not  calculated  on  having  to  go 
through  a  process  like  seeking  the  source  of  the  Niger,  in  a  small 
way. 

For  the  rest,  you  don't  at  all  estimate  my  diflBculties  in  writing  a 
letter  every  day,  when  I  am  expected  to  tell  how  I  am,  and  when 
'I's  ashamed  to  say  I's  no  better.'  Dispense  me  from  saying  any- 
thing whatever  about  my  health;  let  me  write  always  'Notes,'  and 
it  would  be  easy  for  me  to  send  you  a  daily  letter.     As  easy  at  least 

'  Minister  of  Minto  and  wife  (once  Bess  Stoddart),  Bradfute's  niece  and 
heiress. 


86  LETTERS   AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

as  it  is  to  be  lively  with  the  callers,  "who  go  away  in  dou.bt  (like 
George  Cooke)  '  whether  I  am  the  most  stoical  of  women,  or  whe- 
ther there  is  nothing  in  the  world  the  matter  with  me?' 

But  you  want  to  be  told  how  I  sleep,  &c.  &c. ;  and  can't  you 
understand  that  having  said  twice,  thrice,  call  it  four  times,  '  I  am 
sleeping  hardly  any,  I  am  very  nervous  and  suffering,'  the  fifth 
time  that  I  have  the  same  account  to  repeat,  '  horrible  is  the 
thought  to  me,'  and  I  take  refuge  in  silence.  "Wouldn't  you 
do  the  same?  Suppose,  instead  of  putting  myself  in  the  omnibus 
the  other  day,  and  letting  myself  be  carried  in  unbroken  silence  to 
Richmond  and  back  again,  I  had  sat  at  home  writing  to  you  all 
the  thoughts  that  were  in  my  head?  But  that  I  never  would  have 
done ;  not  a  hundredth  part  of  the  thoughts  in  my  head  have  ever 
been  or  ever  will  be  spoken  or  written — as  long  as  I  keep  my  senses, 
at  least. 

Only  don't  you,  '  the  apostle  of  silence,'  find  fault  with  me  for 
putting  your  doctrine  in  practice.  There  are  days  when  I  must 
hold  my  peace  or  speak  things  all  from  the  lips  outwards,  or  things 
that,  being  of  the  nature  of  self-lamentation,  had  better  never  be 
spoken. 

My  cold  in  the  meanwhile?  It  is  still  carrying  on,  till  Lonsdale 
coom,i  in  i^Q  shape  of  cough  and  a  stuffed  head;  but  it  does  not 
hurt  me  anywhere,  and  I  no  longer  need  to  keep  the  house;  the 
weather  being  warm  enough,  I  ride  in  an  omnibus  every  day  more 
or  less. 

All  last  night  it  thundered;  and  there  was  one  such  clap  as  I 
never  heard  in  my  life,  preceded  by  a  flash  that  covered  my  book 
for  a  moment  with  blue  light  (I  was  reading  in  bed  about  three  in 
the  morning,  and  you  can't  think  what  a  wild  effect  that  blue  light 
on  the  book  had !).  To-day  it  is  still  thundering  in  the  distance, 
and  soft,  large,  hot  drops  of  rain  falling.  What  of  the  three 
tailors? 

I  could  swear  you  never  heard  of  Madame de .     But 

she  has  heard  of  you ;  and  if  you  were  in  the  habit  of  thanking  God 
'for  the  blessing  made  to  fly  over  your  head,'  you  might  offer  a 
modest  thanksgiving  for  the  honour  that  stunning  lady  did  you  in 
galloping  madly  all  round  Hyde  Park  in  chase  of  your  'brown 
wide-awake'  the  last  day  you  rode  there;  no  mortal  could  predict 
what  the  result  would  be  if  she  came  up  with  you.     To  seize  your 

*  Cumberland  old  woman  {supra). 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  87 

bridle  and  look  at  you  till  she  was  satisfied  was  a  trifle  to  wliat  she 
•was  supposed  capable  of.  She  only  took  to  galloping  after  you 
when  more  legitimate  means  had  failed. 

She  circulates  everywhere,  this  madcap  'Frenchwoman.'  She 
met  '  the  Rev.  John  '  (Barlow),  and  said,  when  he  was  offering  del- 
icate attentions,  '  There  is  just  one  thing  1  wish  you  to  do  for  me — 
to  take  me  to  see  Mr.  Carlyle.'  'Tell  me  to  ask  tiie  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  to  dance  a  polka  with  j'ou,'  said  Barlow,  aghast,  'and 
I  would  dare  it,  though  I  have  not  the  honour  of  his  acquaintance; 
but  take  anybody  to  Mr.  Carlyle — impossible!'  That  silly  old 
Barlow  won't  take  me  to  Carlyle,'  said  the  lady  to  George  Cooke; 
'you  must  do  it  then.'  'Gracious  heavens!'  said  George  Cooke; 
'ask  me  to  take  you  up  to  tlie  Queen,  and  introduce  you  to  her, 
and  I  would  do  it,  and  "take  the  six  months'  imprisonment,"  or 
whatever  punishment  was  awarded  me;  but  take  anybody  to  Mr. 
Carlyle — impossible! ' 

Soon  after  this,  George  Cooke  met  her  riding  in  the  Park,  and 
said,  'I  passed  Mr.  Carlyle  a  little  way  on,  in  his  brown  wide- 
awake.' The  lady  lashed  her  horse  and  set  off  in  pursuit,  leaving 
her  party  out  of  sight,  and  went  all  round  the  Park  at  full  gallop, 
looking  out  for  the  wide-awake.  She  is  an  authoress  in  a  small 
way,  this  charming  Frenchwoman ;  and  is  the  wife  of  a  newspaper 

editor  at  Paris,  who  '  went  into  the  country  '  (Miss  F told  me) 

'and  brought  back  a  flowerpot  full  of  earth,  and,  on  the  strength 
of  that,  put  de to  his  name  of  Monsieur .' 

But  the  absurdest  fact  about  her  is,  that,  being  a  '  Frenchwoman,' 
she  is  the  reputed  daughter  of  Lord  F.  and  a  Mrs.  G. !     It  is  in  Lord 

F.'s  house  that  she  stays  here.     Miss  F also  declares  she  was  a 

celebrated  singer  at  Munich.    But  Miss  F is  a  very  loose  talker, 

and  was  evidently  jealous  of  the  sensation  the  lady  produced  by  her 
wit  and  eccentricities. 

Will  that  suit  you? 

LETTER  193. 

Larkin  (Henry;  young  Londoner,  then  collector  or  cashier  on  the 
Chelsea  steamers,  now  partner  in  some  prosperous  metallurgic  or 
engineering  business)  had  come  to  me  some  three  years  before  this 
in  a  loyally  volunteer  and  interesting  manner — a  helper  sent  me  by 
favour  of 'Heaven,  as  I  often  said  and  felt  in  the  years  coming. 
He  did  for  me  all  manner  of  maps,  indexes,  summaries,  copyings, 
sortings,  miscellanea  of  every  kind,  in  a  way  not  to  be  surpassed 
for  completeness,  ingenuity,  patience,  exactitude,  and  total  and 


88  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

continual  absence  of  fuss.  Never  had  I  loyaller  or  more  effective 
help ;  nowhere  was  there  a  more  honest-minded  man ;  really  of  fine 
talent,  too;  clear,  swift  discerumeut,  delicate  sense  of  humour,  &c. ; 
but  he  preferred  serving  me  in  silence  to  any  writing  he  could  do 
(that  was  his  own  account  on  volunteering  himself).  Till  Frederick 
ended  he  was  my  factotum,  always  at  hand ;  and  still  from  the  dis- 
tance is  prompt  and  eager  to  help  me  actuall}';  a  man  to  thank 
Heaven  for,  as  I  still  gratefully  acknowledge. — T.  0. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Gill. 

Chelsea:  July  19, 1858. 

There,  my  dear!  I  sendj'ou  a  wonderful  communication — a  map 
of  your  new  'parish'  and  township  in  Australia!  I  have  spent  an 
hour  over  the  packet  before  I  could  understand  what  it  all  meant. 
The  letter  accompanying  the  maps  was  inserted  between  them,  so 
that  it  was  not  discovered  at  first.  There  are  six  copies  of  this 
map  that  I  send  you,  and  there  is  a  large  colored  map  on  exces- 
sively thick  paper,  professing  to  be  '  Plan  of  the  Township  of  Car- 
lyle, in  the  Parish  of  Carlyle,  Murray  District;'  to  which  is  affixed 
the  signature  of  '  C.  Gavan  Duffy,  Minister  of  Land  and  Works.' 
This  I  will  not  send — it  would  cost  so  much — unless  you  wish  for 
it  at  once.  Poor  Duffy  appears  by  the  letter  to  be  very  ill,  but 
past  the  worst. 

It  is  such  a  beautiful  day,  this!  as  clear  as  a  bell,  and  not  too 
warm.  And  for  quiet,  I  question  if  you  be  nearly  as  quiet  at 
the  Gill.  Charlotte  is  gone  for  her  quarter's  holiday,  went  off  at 
•  eight  in  the  morning  with  her  nominal  parents  to  Gravesend;  and 
I  wouldn't  have  Mrs.  Newnham  come  till  two  o'clock,  when  my 
dinner  would  be  needed,  and  there  might  be  '  knocking  at  the 
door!' 

The  only  sign  of  life  in  the  house  is  the  incessant  chirp  of  a  little 
ugly  brown  bird,  that  I  rescued  yestenhiy  afternoon  from  some 
boys  who  were  killing  it;  bought  of  them  for  twopence;  and  now 
I  find  it  cannot  feed  itself  and  I  have  to  put  crowdy  into  its  mouth 
(which  is  always  gaping)  with  a  stick. 

I  went  in  an  omnibus  to  Putney  yesterday  evening,  and  came 
back  outside.  It  is  as  pleasant  as  a  barouche  and  four,  the  top  of 
an  omnibus;  but  the  conductors  don't  like  the  trouble  of  helping 
one  up.  When  I  came  home  at  six,  I  found  Charlotte  wildly  ex- 
cited over  Mrs.  Cameron,  who  had  waited  for  me  more  than  an 
hour,  played  on  the  piano,  and  written  '  a  long  letter  on  three 
sheets  of  paper.'  Certainly  she  had  spoiled  three  sheets  in  telling 
mo  she  had  come  to  carry  me  off  to  Little  Holland  House,  and  that 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  89 

she  would  send  back  the  carriage  for  me  at  nine,  and  bring  me 
home  at  eleven.  Charlotte  told  her  I  had  been  very  ill,  and  was 
never  out  late;  but  that  made  no  difference — the  carriage  would  be 
sent ;  only  if  I  could  not  come,  she  (Charlotte)  must  come  over  to 
Little  Holland  House  and  tell  them  in  time  to  stop  the  carriage — 
'  it  was  a  long  way  to  send  a  carriage  for  nothing. '  She  did  not 
consider  it  was  a  long  way  for  my  only  servant  to  be  sent  for 
nothing. 

While  I  was  hesitating  about  sending,  for  of  course  I  never 
dreamt  of  going,  Mr.  Neuberg  came  to  tea;  and,  needing  Charlotte 
at  home,  I  found  it  too  absurd  that  she  should  have  to  leave  me  to 
get  the  tea,  while  she  went  for  Mrs.  Cameron's  whim  to  Holland 
House.  So  I  wrote  a  note,  and  coolly  gave  it  to  the  coachman  to 
take  back  instead  of  myself. 

You  are  very  kind  in  pressing  your  present  refuge  on  me,  but  I 
will  never  allow  you  to  either  '  pig  in '  at  Scotsbrig,  or  to  commit 
yourself  to  Providence  at  Dumfries.  My  greatest  comfort  all  this 
time  has  been  just  knowing  you  situated  according  to  j^our  needs, 
in  full  enjoyment  of  air,  milk,  and  quiet.  Never  fear  but  I  will 
make  some  ajTangement  for  myself  when  it  becomes  desirable  that 
I  should  leave  London.  I  am  not  yet  equal  to  so  long  a  journey  as 
to  Scotland,  but  I  am  improving,  and  taking  as  much  exercise  as  is 
good  for  me ;  change  of  air  too. 

I  am  going  to-morrow  to  Mr.  Larkin's  mother's,  to  spend  the  day 
in  that  beautiful  garden  from  which  he  brings  me  such  bouquets. 
Mr.  Larkin  is  to  come  himself  at  twelve  o'clock  to*  take  me;  and 
the  next  day  Mrs.  Forster  is  to  come  and  take  me  to  early  dinner 
in  Montague  Square.  I  have  had  even  an  invitation  to  Ristori's 
benefit  to-night,  shawls  and  cloaks  to  be  in  readiness  the  moment 
I  left  the  box,  &c.,  and  brought  home  with  closed  windows;  but 
that,  of  course,  I  screamed  at  the  idea  of.  It  was  little  Mrs. 
Royston  who  wished  to  take  me,  a  box  having  been  given  her. 
So  you  see  I  am  very  kindly  seen  to.  I  have  slept  better  these  two 
nights,  and  am  rather  stronger,  and  my  cough  is  abated;  speaking 
I  find  the  worst  thing  for  it.  Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  194. 

I  am  now  about  setting  out  on  my  second  German  tour  '  to  visit 
all  the  battlefields  of  Friedrich,'  which  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  mis- 
ery, but  was  not  honestly  to  be  avoided.  She,  being  rather  stronger, 
is  going  to  stay  with  Miss  Baring,  at  Bay  House,  Alverstokc.— T.  C. 


90  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


T.  CarlyU,  The  Gill. 

Chelsea:  Thursday,  July  89, 1658. 
Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!  What  did  you  do  with  the  key  of  your 
bureau?  There  is  no  vestige  of  a  passport  in  the  upper  'little 
drawer  next  the  Are,'  the  only  drawer  which  is  unlocked;  the  keys 
used  to  lie  in  that.  I  hftve  wasted  the  whole  morning  in  seeking  a 
key  to  open  the  top  part,  or  another  drawer  where  the  kej' s  may  be, 
and  have  fouud  only  two  of  your  lost  dog-whistles!  I  don't  like  to 
have  the  locks  picked  till  it  is  hopeless  finding  the  key.  If  you 
have  it  or  know  where  you  put  it,  and  tell  me  by  Saturday  morn- 
ing, there  would  just  be  time  to  send  the  passport  before  I  start; 
but  as  I  tell  you,  my  morning  is  all  wasted,  and  in  the  afternoon  I 
must  go  up  to  Piccadilly  to  get  some  indispensable  little  items  for 
mjf  visit.  I  have  been  kept  back  these  two  last  days  by  the  cold- 
ness of  the  weather,  and  my  extreme  sensitiveness.  The  prospect 
of  going  a  journey  aud  living  in  another  person's  house  is  doing 
me  more  harm  than  probably  the  reality  will  do;  I  could  'scream 
at  the  idea  of  it '  sometimes,  and  write  off,  '  Oh,  you  must  excuse 
me!'  But  again,  just  the  more  I  feel  nervous,  the  more  I  need  to 
try  anything  that  may  brace  my  nerves;  and,  of  course,  a  doctor 
would  tell  me  to  get  rid  of  this  incessant  little  dry  cough  '  before  Oc- 
tober.' I  should  not  say  incessant,  for  in  the  forenoons,  when  I  hold 
my  tongue,  I  hardly  cough  at  all — at  least  it  is  quite  another  sort 
of  cough,  bripging  up  phlegm  at  intervals;  but  in  the  evening, 
especially  if  any  one  comes,  it  is  as  incessant  as  the  chirp  of  my 
adopted  sparrow.  I  am  not  getting  weaker,  however,  except  in 
my  mind.  I  take  exercise  every  day,  '  chiefly  in  an  omnibus,  Mr. 
Carlylel '  And  I  try  every  day  to  do  or  see  something  cheering;  I 
should  soon  fall  into  melancholy  mania  if  I  didn't.  Last  evening, 
for  example,  I  had  old  Mrs.  Larkin  to  tea — such  a  pretty  little 
rough  tea,  you  can't  fancy,  and  Mrs.  Larkin  was  so  pleased.  And 
I  had  Mrs.  Hawkes  to  talk  to  them,  and  George  Cook  came  acci- 
dentally. George  Cook  is  very  attentive  and  sympathetic  to  me. 
But  the  key,  the  keyl 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carltle. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  M 

LETTER  195. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  OiU. 

Bay  House:  Monday,  Aug.  2, 1858. 
All  right,  dear;  I  got  through  ray  journey  much  better  than 
could  have  been  expected,  having  slept  even  soundly  (mercifully), 
just  the  last  night  before  leaving.  A  fat,  old,  real  lady  in  the  car- 
riage opposite  me  paid  me  delicate  attentions ; '  lent  me  her  smelling 
bottle,  gave  me  her  nosegay,  put  her  dressing-case  under  my  feet, 
&c.  &c.,  having  commenced  acquaintance  by  asking,  'Have  you 
been  poorly  long? '  When  she  changed  trains  at  Bishopstoke,  she 
looked  over  her  shoulder  to  say :  '  I  sincerely  hope  you  may  soon 
be  better,  ma'am.' 

How  differently  one's  looks  impress  different  people!  The  man 
who  drove  me  from  the  station  (and  charged  me  three-and-sixpence!) 
evidently  took  me  for  well  enough  to  be  going  to  service  at  Bay 
House,  for  he  turned  round  as  soon  as  we  passed  through  the  gate 
to  ask,  '  was  he  to  drive  round  to  the  back  door?  '  And  then  the 
footman  who  received  me  took  me  for  deaf!  coming  close  up  to 
me  when  he  had  anything  to  say,  and  shouting  it  into  my  ear.  He 
was  the  only  person  I  saw  for  three  hours  after  my  arrival.  The 
'  Miss  Barings  outwalking;'  'would  I  wish  to  be  .shown  to  my 
room?'  'Certainly.'  'Would  I  wish  any  refreshment?'  'Yes, 
a  cup  of  tea.'  It  was  brought,  and  then  all  lapsed  into  the  profound- 
est  silence.  I  could  have  fancied  a  pleasanter  reception;  at  the 
same  time  '  it  was  coostom  in  part, ' '  no  harm  meant. 

Having  had  lots  of  time  to  unpack  and  dress  myself,  I  was  first 
in  the  drawing-room  before  dinner.  A  gentleman  came  in,  whom 
I  liked  the  look  of,  but  no  word  passed  between  us;  then  Mrs. 
Mildmay  came,  and  finally  my  hostess,  who  assured  me  she  was 
'  delighted  to  see  me,'  and  so  I  was  installed.  Another  lady  entered 
with  Emily,  whom  I  recognised  as  Mrs.  Frederick  Baring,  and  the 
gentleman  was  Frederick  Baring,  whom  I  had  never  seen  before, 
and  of  whom  I  had  got  the  most  absurdly  unjust  impression.  Both 
he  and  his  wife  are  kindly,  unaffected  people;  he,  indeed,  strikes 
me  as  quite  a  superior  man.  I  had  a  good  deal  of  talk  with  him 
yesterday,  and  am  sorry  he  is  gone  to-day.  His  wife  went  with 
him,  so  there  is  now  only  Mrs.  Mildmay  and  her  son. 

>  'Why  are  these  mills  going  to-day?'  (Sunday,  in  Cumberland.)  'Coos- 
tom in  part.' 


92  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

The  railway  jonrney  made  me  so  sleepy  that  I  could  hardly  keep 
my  eyes  open  till  I  got  to  bed,  and  in  bed  I  slept  in  a  wonderful 
manner.  My  room  is  the  same  where  I  lay  three  days  in  a  sore 
throat,  and  the  boy  '  Jack  '  hud  to  bring  in  my  breakfast.  But  no 
association  could  keep  me  awake  that  night.  Certainly  if  pure  air, 
and  quiet,  and  wholesome  food,  and  freedom  from  all  '  cares  '  but 
of  dressing  oneself,  can  cure  me,  I  shall  be  cured — in  a  few  days. 

It  is  Louisa  Baring  that  goes  with  Lord  Ashburton  to  Scotland 
on  Monday.  I  thought  if  Emily  was  going  somewhere  too,  I 
might  be  wished  to  go  away  in  less  time  than  a  week;  and,  at  all 
events  living  on  in  that  sort  of  fear  of  over-staying  one's  welcome 
is  very  disagreeable.  So  I  thought  I  had  best  go  frankly  to  the  end 
of  it  at  once,  and  I  said  to  Emily,  when  we  were  walking  this 
morning,  that  I  had  meant  to  stay  till  the  end  of  this  week;  but,  as 
Miss  Baring  was  leaving  the  place  so  soon  as  Monday,  perhaps  it 
would  be  more  convenient  that  I  should  go  on  an  earlier  day — 
would  she  kindly  tell  me?  Emily  protested  against  my  going  this 
week.  She  and  Mrs.  Mildmay  are  to  be  here  till  the  twenty-fourth, 
and  I  'had  better  stay  over  next  week.'  The  invitation  was  given 
with  cordiality  enough  to  make  me  feel  quite  at  ease  for  this  week 
anyhow,  the  rest  will  disclose  itself.  The  Baring  manner  is  natur- 
ally so  shy,  and  so  cold,  that  I  dare  say  one  may  easily  underrate 
the  kindness  of  feeling  which  accompanies  it. 

Yours  ever, 

Jane  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  196. 

T.  CarlyU,  Esq.,  The  Gill. 

Bay  House:  Friday,  August  7,  1858. 
Only  Friday  morning,  dear,  yet!  Heaven  knows!  Possibly  this 
may  not  reach  you  till  Monday.  However,  when  it  does  reach 
you  it  won't  bring  bad  news.  I  still  have  nothing  but  good  to  tell 
of  myself.  I  continue  to  get  a  very  tolerable  allowance  of  sleep,  and 
to  eat  my  breakfast  '  with  the  same  relish.' '  And,  will  you  believe 
it?  I  eat  two  dinners  every  day.  I  do  that — one  at  half -past  one, 
and  the  other  at  eight;  which  last,  I  call,  in  my  own  miud,  supper, 
and  no  tea  after.  The  little  nervous  cough  is  entirely  gone,  and  the 
rough  cough  gets  rarer  every  dry.     For  the  rest,  I  am  quite  com- 

1  A  phrase  of  John  Jeffrey's  (Lord  Jeffrey's  brother),  quasi  pathetic:  'eats 
his  b«©f-steak  with,'  &c. 


I 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  93 

fortable  morally.  I  never  was  put  more  at  ease  on  a  visit.  I  feel 
to  have  dropt  into  the  regular  life  of  the  house,  and  to  have  found 
my  place  in  it,  without  anybody  taking  trouble  to  adjust  me,  or 
myself  taking  trouble. 

The  only  visitor  now  besides  myself  is  Mrs.  Mildmay  yes,  Geral- 
dine's  mother,  a  much  nicer  woman  than  one  fancied  her,  full  of 
fun  and  good  humour).  She  reads  to  us  for  an  hour  or  so  after 
breakfast  ('  Chambers's  Annals  of  Scotland '),  while  the  rest  sew. 
Then  we  go  to  our  rooms  to  write,  or  do  anything  that  needs  pri- 
vacy. I,  for  my  part,  take  always  a  stroll  on  the  shore  before 
lunch  at  half-past  one.  At  three  we  go  out  in  the  open  carriage, 
and  have  the  pleasantest  drives,  being  permitted  to  sit  perfectly 
silent;  Miss  Baring  seems  to  think  this  the  natural  way  of  driving 
in  the  open  air,  and  she  is  quite  right.  Coming  in  about  five,  there 
are  the  letters ;  each  one  takes  her  own,  and  retires  to  her  own  room 
till  dinner-time.  After  dinner,  till  eleven,  we  talk,  and  work,  and 
read  the  newspapers,  and  play  piquet.  At  eleven  the  butler  enters 
with  a  silver  tray,  containing  four  bright  crystal  tumblers  filled  with 
the  purest  cold  water;  nothing  else  whatever.  I  always  take  one, 
and  have  grown  to  feel  a  need  of  it.  You  cannot  think  how  genial 
the  Miss  Barings  are  at  home;  what  a  deal  of  hearty  laughing  they 
do  in  a  day! 

You  will  foresee  that  I  am  not  going  at  the  end  of  '  a  week.'  Miss 
Baring  goes  to  join  Lord  A.  on  Monday;  but  Emily  has  pressed  me 
quite  cordially  to  remain  with  her  and  Mrs.  Mildmay  till  she  goes 
into  Norfolk.  And,  if  nothing  unforeseen  occur  to  '  dash  the  cup  of 
fame  from  my  brow,' '  I  shall  remain  and  be  thankful  to.  I  don't 
feel  the  least  drawn  to  5  Cheyne  Row  in  your  absence;  indeed,  I 
don't  mean  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  it  than  I  can  help  till 
you  are  there.  Don't  think  me  crazy.  I  have  written  to  Mrs. 
Pringle  this  morning  (the  16th)  that  I  shall  be  with  her,  if  all  go 
well,  the  end  of  this  month;  September  is  often  a  fine  month  in 
Scotland.  You  may  see  how  much  better  I  am,  from  this  effort  of 
moral  courage,  as  well  as  if  you  were  beside  me.  I  can't  be  said  to 
need  'change  of  air,' after  having  had  it  so  long  here — don't,  in- 
deed, intend  to  give  any  '  varnish  of  duty  '  to  the  journey.  It  may 
not  have  the  least  effect  in  keeping  off  illness  through  the  winter;  it 
can't  in  the  least  add  to  j'our  comfort  when  you  are  only  waiting 
for  a  yacht;  but  it  will  be  a  pleasant  way  of  spending  the  next 
month,  and  perhaps  may  (if  I  manage  myself  carefully)  help  to  keep 

»  Scotch  preacher  (supra). 


94  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

me  well  through  the  next  month;  and,  oh,  my  dear!  I  have  suffered 
BO  much — so  much,  and  so  long — that  even  a  month  of  respite  looks 
to  me  a  thing  worth  taking  any  trouble  for  and  spending  any  money 
for  that  I  can  lawfully  spend.  When  I  left  home  I  did  not  believe 
that  a  change  could  do  so  much  for  me,  even  for  the  lime  being. 
Now  that  I  feel  what  It  has  done,  I  want  more  of  it.  There  is  no 
other  place  nearer  hand  where  I  could  get  any  good;  besides,  there 
is  no  place  nearer  hand  that  I  am  invited  to. 

To  be  sure  I  might  go  into  lodgings  nearer  hand;  but '  horrible  is 
the  thought  to  me! '  and  in  lodgings  I  should  have  the  '  cares  of 
bread.'  One  of  the  reasons  I  eat  so  heartily  here  is,  that  I  have  had 
no  forethought  about  the  things  set  before  me.  Eating  the  dinner 
one  has  ordered  oneself  is,  to  a  sick  person,  as  ungrateful  as  wear- 
ing the  gown  one  has  made  oneself  is  to  an  inexpert  sewer.  So 
please  don't  think  me  crazy!  and,  above  all,  don't  fetter  yourself 
with  me  the  least  in  the  world.  If  the  '  yacht ' '  turn  up  before  I 
come — if  your  stay  seems  to  find  its  natural  limit  before  I  come,  go 
all  the  same.  As  I  should  try  to  cut  the  journey  in  two  by  sleeping 
at  Liverpool,  I  could  go  straight  on  if  you  were  not  there  to  give  me 
a  rest  and  good  speed.  But  it  is  far  off  yet,  all  that ;  and  mean- 
while it  may  become  intolerably  cold,  or  I  may  catch  cold,  or  fall 
off  my  sleep,  and  so  become  too  cowardly  '  for  anything.'  I  said 
to  Mrs.  Pringle  I  would  go  if  I  could,  not  that  I  would  '  whether  I 
could  or  not.' 

Now  I  have  just  been  down  to  lunch,  and  must  get  ready  for 
Gosport,  in  the  carriage.  I  will  take  this  letter  on  chance  of  hasten- 
ing it.  Yours  ever, 

Jane  Carlylb. 

LETTER  197. 

Dumfries. — Lord  Ashburton  did  come  by  that  road,  and  we  drove 
together  to  New  Abbey,  &c.,  before  his  starting  again  next  day. 
Rous,  the  house  doctor. — A  copiously  medicinal  man.  '  William 
Harcourt,' the  now  lawyering,  parliamenteering,  «&c. ;  loud  man, 
who  used  to  come  liither  at  intervals.  '  A  glorious  bit  of  colour.' — 
One  of  Leigh  Hunt's  little  children  dixit. — T.  C. 

T.  CarlyU,  Esq.,  The  Gill. 

Bay  House :  Monday,  Aug.  9, 1858. 
How  curious  if  Lord  A.  be  at  this  moment  on  the  road  to  Dum- 
fries!   Miss  Baring  started  an  hour  ago  in  full  assurance  of  finding 

'  It  I  have  quite  forgotten,  what  or  whom;  only  that  ft  never  came. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  95 

him  ■waiting  to  go  with  her  to-morrow.  Not  one  word  has  been  re- 
ceived from  him  since  they  parted  in  London,  on  the  understand- 
ing they  were  to  go  north  together  on  the  10th ;  and  I  thought  it  best 
to  say  nothing  of  your  news  that  he  was  to  be  at  Dumfries  on  the 
9th.  She  might  have  felt  mortified  at  the  new  arrangement  being 
communicated  only  through  me,  and  nervous  about  what  would 
await  her  in  London.  Rous,  no  doubt,  will  smooth  all  down.  But 
what  an  odd  man  Lord  A.  is!  I  hope  it  will  come  off  all  right,  the' 
meeting  at  Dumfries,  and  that  it  will  enliven  3-ou  for  some  days. 
Perhaps  he  will  persuade  you  to  go  to  Loch  Luichart?  Miss  Baring 
is  most  anxious  you  should  come.  By  the  way,  please  to  send  the 
remaining  volume  of  '  Tourgueneff '  to  her;  she  has  taken  the 
others,  and  fears  there  will  be  great  dearth  of  literature  in  the  High- 
lands. 

I  felt  quite  sorry  to  see  her  drive  off  this  morning.  She  has 
really  been  most  kind  to  me,  and  took  leave  of  me  quite  affection- 
ately; '  now  that  I  had  found  my  way  to  them,  she  hoped  I  would 
never  be  so  hard  to  persuade  here  again.'  "We  are  now  reduced  to 
three;  but  Bingham  Mildmay  is  expected.  AVhen  he  comes  we  are 
to  goto  inspect  'the  camp,'  and  go  again  to  'the  Island.'  The 
camp  astonished  me  the  first  time  I  went  to  walk  on  the  shoi'S — a 
field,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  all  covered  over  with  snow-white 
cones.  I  thought  for  a  moment  it  was  the  grandest  encampment  of 
gipsies.  But  there  are  some  two  thousand  soldiers  in  these  tents. 
Near  it  there  is  a  most  beautiful  new  fort  a-building;  the  guns  of 
which,  if  they  ever  come  into  action,  will  smash  right  through  Bay 
House. 

On  Saturday  we  left  for  the  island  at  eleven,  and  did  not  return' 
till  six, — Emily,  Mrs.  Mildmay,  and  L  At  Ryde  we  got  an  open 
fly,  and  drove  to  a  place  up  the  shore  called  Spring  Vale,  where  Sir 
Henry  Mildmay  and  his  wife  and  rosebuds  were  rusticating.  Verj-- 
human,  pleasant  people.  They  had  been  warned  of  our  coming, 
and  had  dinner  (No.  1)  waiting  for  us.  Then  we  drove  to  St.  Clair, 
the  property  and  work  of  art  of  Colonel  Harcourt,  and  Lady  Cath- 
erine (uncle  of  William  Harcourt).  There,  too,  Mrs.  Mildmay  in- 
troduced me  with  graceful  emphasis;  and  I  was  very  courteously 
treated  and  shown  about.  A  lady  said  I  '  had  forgotten  her,'  that 
she  was  the  Mrs.  Malcolm  who  dined  with  us  at  Lady  Sandwich's; 
she  is  sister  to  Colonel  Harcourt.  The  sea  being  as  smooth  as  glass 
that  day,  I  wasn't  in  the  least  sick,  and  the  whole  affair  passed  off 
to  the  general  satisfaction. 


9G  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

^Iis.  Mildmay  is  going  to  take  us  to  Osborne  to  call  for  Lady 
Caroline  Barrington,  the  governess  to  'the  Royal  children,'  and  on 
to  Cowcs  to  call  for  somebody  else.  In  fact,  she  is  the  most  good- 
natured  of  women,  Mrs.  Mildmay,  besides  being  excessively  amus- 
ing in  herself.     She  is  not  the  widow  of  Sir  Walter's  friend,  but  of 

his  nephew  and  the  heir  to .    One  is  so  apt  to  lose  a  generation 

nowadays. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  Crocker's  house  is  now  a  royal  residence,  has 
been  given  to  little  Prince  Alfred,  who  is  learning  to  be  a  sailor? 
I  saw  him  this  morning  shaking  hands  with  two  of  his  tutors,  and 
jumping  into  his  little  boat  with  the  third — a  slight,  graceful  little 
boy.  The  Queen  came  over  and  breakfasted  with  him  one  morn- 
ing, and  another  time  took  tea  with  him.  He  keeps  a  little  red  flag 
flying  when  at  home,  which  adds  '  a  glorious  bit  of  colour '  to  the 
scene. 

Your  description  of  '  Craig-o-putta '  made  me  feel  choked ;  I 
know  what  that  wood  must  be  grown  to.  Close  on  the  house,  form- 
ing a  great  dark  shearing-hook  before  the  windows.  I  always 
thought  the  laying  out  of  that  planting  detestable,  and  if  I  were  liv- 
ing there  I  would  set  fire  to  it. 

This  paper  is  thick,  so  I  will  take  off  half  a  sheet  to  make  room 
for  poor  little  Charlotte's  unexpected  letter — worth  reading. 

Tours  ever, 

Jane  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  198. 

'What  ornament  and  grandeur!' — Indignant  old  sailor  to  me 
once  about  his  new  binnacle  in  his  new-fangled  steamship.  '  Suet 
and  plums '  was  a  casual  reflection  of  my  own.  Rob  Austin  used 
to  be  our  private  post-boy  once  a  week. — T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Dresden. 

Lann  Hall:  Friday,  Sept.  10, 1858. 

I  was  sure  of  it;  knew  without  being  told  that  the  bathe  in  the 
Baltic  had  given  a-ou  cold.  You  ought  to  know  by  this  time  that 
just  the  more  you  feel  drawn  to  do  those  rash  things,  the  more  you 
should  keep  yourself  from  doing  them.  God  grant  this  wild-hunts- 
man rush  over  German}'  don't  spoil  all  the  good  you  got  in  quiet 
Annadale!  But  you  had  to  do  it;  would  not  have  finished  your 
book  in  peace  without  having  done  it! 

I  saw  Eaves  about  the  horse  before  I  left;  but  he  could  not  go 


JANE  WELSH  CAKLYLE.  97 

out  to  Richmond  till  the  folio-wing  Sunday,  when  he  got  a  good 
ducking  to  settle  his  account  for  the  Sunday -breaking.  He  had  no 
difficulty  in  finding  the  horse,  who  was  in  capital  condition,  and  as 
nimble  on  his  feet  as  the  Irishman's  flea.  He  (the  horse)  has  no 
end  of  pasture  to  roam  about  in,  and  has  '  found  a  friend; '  formed 
a  romantic  attachment  to  another  horse  of  his  own  way  of  thinking; 
they  are  always  together,  both  in  their  feeding  and  their  playing, 
and  evidently  enjoy  their  liberty  and  their  abundant  grass.  So  you 
may  be  quite  happy  in  your  mind  so  far  as  the  horse  is  concerned. 

Charlotte  is  behaving  herself  quite  well  so  far  as  I  can  ascertain. 

The  sparrow  whom  I  did  design  to  train  to  flying,  and  '  eventu- 
ally '  to  flying  away,  died  before  my  return  from  Bay  House ;  but 
the  poor  little  canary  has  recovered  health  and  feathers  under  the 
nursing  of  Mrs.  Huxham,  in  whose  '  bosom  it  spends  several  hours 
every  day; '  I  should  think  not  too  happy  hours! ' 

For  the  rest,  one's  life  here  is  remarkably  cheerful.  It  is  the  very 
loveliest  glen  I  ever  saw,  endeared  to  me  by  old  associations.  The 
people  in  it  are  all  remarkably  prosperous,  and  were  always  hos- 
pitable.    They  are  glad  to  see  me  again,  and  I  am  glad  to  see  them. 

The  practical  result  has  been  a  perfect  explosion  of  lunches  to  my 
honour  and  glory,  all  over  Glen  Shinnel  and  Glencarin.  I  would 
not  be  out  after  sunset,  so  these  lunches  are  early  dinner-parties ; 
and,  oh,  my!  what  'ornament  and  grandeur!'  what  'suet  and 
plooms.'  I  assure  you,  not  at  the  Grange  itself  have  I  seen  better 
food  or  better  wine  (champagne)  than  these  big  farmers  or  little  lairds 
bring  forth  to  one  here  '  in  a  lordly  dish ! '  And  it  is  so  much  heartier 
a  sort  of  hospitality  than  one  finds  in  the  south!  It  makes  one  feel 
younger  by  twenty  years!  I  catch  myself  laughing  sometimes  with 
a  voice  that  startles  myself  as  being  not  like  my  own  but  my 
mother's,  who  was  always  so  much  gayer  than  I.  Indeed,  it  is 
good  for  me  to  be  here;  and  I  wish  my  visit  had  come  off  while  you 
were  at  the  Gill,  that  you  might  have  tried  it  too.  Better  material 
accommodation  you  could  have  nowhere;  and  Mrs.  Pringle  has  tact 
and  consideration  enough,  I  lliink,  to  have  suited  the  moral  atmos- 
phere to  the  shorn  lamb  (V). 

The  question  is  now  about  your  journey  home?  Are  you  going 
straight  to  London?  If  that  is  decidedly  the  most  convenient  way 
for  yourself,  of  course  I  should  not  so  much  as  suggest  your  re- 
turning by  here;  and  so  far  as  my  own  journey  is  concerned,  I 
should  rather  prefer  doing  it  '  all  to  myself '  (as  the  children  say). 

*  Far  too  flattering  an  account. 
II.-5 


98  LETTERS  AND  MEMOEIALS  OF 

Perhaps  I  might  choose  to  stay  a  night  at  Liverpool.  At  all 
events,  I  might  need  to  have  a  window  shut  when  you  preferred 
it  open.  But  if  you  liked  to  return  by  Leith,  and  to  be  a  little 
longer  in  the  country  under  easy  circumstances,  you  could  not  do 
better  than  stop  here.  About  your  welcome  you  may  feel  the  most 
exuberant  assurance. 

If  you  decide  to  go  straight  to  London,  I  skould  know  as  soon 
as  possible,  that  I  may  shape  my  own  course  accordingly.  For  I 
should  not  like  your  being  done  for  by  only  Charlotte.  I  have  a 
week's  visit  promised  to  Mrs.  Russell,  and  I  also  undertook  to  stay 
a  few  days  at  Scotsbrig,  in  case  Dr.  C.  and  his  '  poor  boys'  lingered 
on  at  London  till  the  end  of  my  time  here.  I  will  see  Mary  and 
Jane  on  my  road  back.  But  I  need  to  give  myself  as  little  rough 
travelling  as  possible,  not  to  be  going  and  catching  a  cold  after  all 
these  mighty  efforts  to  strengthen  myself.  The  Donaldsons  and 
my  aunts  won't  believe  I  can  mean  to  go  away  without  seeing  them. 
To  see  the  dear  old  women  at  Sunny  Bank  once  more  I  would 
gladly  incur  the  expense  of  the  journey  there;  but  that  is  the  least 
of  it.  The  '  tashing '  mj^self  which  Betty  so  strongly  protests 
against  must  not  be  ventured, 

"We  have  just  had  one  perfectly  fair,  beautiful  day  since  I  came 
(last  Wednesday),  and  I  spent  it  in  an  excursion  to — Craigenputtock! 
"We  took  some  dinner  with  us,  and  ate  it  in  the  dining-room,  with 
the  most  ghastly  sensations  on  my  part.  The  tenant  was  at  Dum- 
fries; the  wife  very  civil;  the  children  confiding  to  a  degree.  Their 
fatlier  'had  wine,'  '  whiles  took  ower  muckle.'  We  called  on  the 
Austins  and  Corsons.  Nobody  knew  me!  or  could  guess  at  me! 
Peter  said  I  '  micht  hae  speaket  to  him  seven  year,  and  he  wouldna 
hae  f aund  me  oot. '  Peter  privately  stroked  my  pelisse,  and  asked 
Mrs.  Pringle,  'That'll  be  real  silk,  Pm  thinking?'  'Satin,'  said 
she.  'Aye,'  said  Peter,  'nae  doot,  nae  doot,  the  best  o't.'  Rob 
Austin  almost  crunched  my  fingers  in  his  big  hand,  and  that  was 
the^only  pleasant  thing  that  befell  me  at  my  '  ancestral  home.'  Ach 
Gott! 

I  wrote  already  to  Dresden. 

Mrs.  Pringle  has  been  trying  to  write  you  a  note,  pressing  you  to 
come  here  on  your  way  back;  and  now  she  comes  with  her  face 
like  to  burst,  asking  me  to  '  say  it  all  for  her.  She  is  so  afraid  to 
write  to  you.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  99 

LETTER  199. 

To  Mr.  James  Austhi,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  Sept.  SO,  1858. 

My  dear  Jamie, — I  never  saw  such  a  thing  in  all  my  life!  I 
plunged  into  a  carriage  full  of  ill-bred,  disobliging,  English  tourists; 
they  would  make  no  room  for  me  with  my  beehive  and  all  my 
little  things!  I  had  to  force  a  way  for  myself  and  my  belongings, 
and  when  I  had  got  my  hands  freed,  and  turned  round  to  shake 
hands  with  you,  before  I  sat  down,  behold  the  door  was  shut,  and 
you  had  disappeared,  and  we  were  in  motion !  I  could  have  cried 
for  vexation;  and  could  not  get  it  out  of  my  head  all  the  road  to 
London — that  I  had  come  off  without  a  word  of  thanks  for  your 
kindness  to  me,  or  a  word  of  leave-taking!  And  I  felt  such  a 
detestation  of  these  broad-hatted  women  in  the  carriage  with  me, 
whose  disobligingness  had  been  the  cause  of  my  flurry. 

I  went  to  the  guard,  at  Carlisle,  and  told  him  I  would  not  go  on 
with  these  people,  and  should  like  to  have  a  carriage  all  to  myself. 
He  seemed  quite  taken  with  my  assurance,  and  asked  if  I  could  put 
up  with  one  lady  beside  me?  I  said,  '  Yes,  if  she  were  not  trouble- 
some! '  He  took  me  to  a  stout  gentleman  (the  clerk  at  Carlisle,  I 
suppose)  and  said,  'This  lady  wants  a  carriage  all  to  herself!  but 
she  would  allow  oue  lady  with  her.'  The  gentleman  said  '  it  was  a 
very  natural  wish;  but  he  did  not  see  how  it  could  be  gratified; 
however,  if  I  would  keep  quiet  beside  him,  he  would  see  what  was 
possible! '  And  the  result  was,  I  got  a  carriage  with  only  one  lady 
in  it!  Nothing  like  a  modest  impudence  for  getting  one  on  in  this 
world!  So  far  from  olj^'ecting  to  the  quantity  of  my  luggage,  they 
asked  'Was  that  all?  Had  I  nothing  more?'  and  they  put  up  my 
things  quite  softly,  whereas  everybody  else's,  I  noticed,  were 
pitclied  up  like  quoits!  The  result  is,  that  not  so  much  as  one  egg 
was  broken!  And  much  satisfaction  was  diffused  over  the  house 
by  the  unpacking  of  that  improvised  hamper! 

When  I  found  how  much  at  ease  I  was  in  my  carriage,  I  re- 
gretted not  bringing  away  that  kitten !  It  might  have  played  about! 
But  wasn't  I  thankful  prudence  had  prevailed  when  I  found  my- 
self already  the  enviable  mistress  of  a  kitten  exactly  tlie  same  size, 
but  black  as  soot!  Charlotte  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  my 
absence  to  discover  '  there  were  mice  in  the  house,'  and  bring  home 
a  new  pet  to  herself!    The  dog  and  it  are  dear  friends,  for  a  won- 


100  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

der.     I  was  delighted  to  see  it  this  morning  trying  to  ride  on  the 
dog's  back ! 

Mr.  C.  was  waiting  for  me,  and  had  firmly  believed  for  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour  that  it  was  no  use,  as  I  must  certainly  have  been 
smashed  to  pieces!  We  were  in  fact  an  hour  later  than  the  regular 
time — in  consequence  of  a  bridge  burnt  down  over  the  Trent, 
which  occasioned  a  great  roundabout.  Besides,  the  train  did  not 
behave  itself  at  all  like  an  Express,  stopphig  at  a  great  many  places, 
and  for  long  whiles. 

My  house  was  all  right ;  indeed,  I  never  found  it  as  thoroughly 
cleaned,  or  the  general  aspect  of  things  as  satisfactory.  She  is  a 
perfect  jewel,  that  young  girl;  besides  all  her  natural  work,  she 
had  crocheted,  out  of  her  own  head,  a  large  cover  for  the  drawing- 
room  sofa! 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  a  good  situation  is  found  at  last  for 
James  Aitken.  Carlyle  seemed  very  grateful  to  you  for  the  care 
you  took  of  me.  I  told  him  about  that  '  close  carriage '  before  we 
had  been  five  minutes  in  the  cab  together. 

Kindest  love  to  Mary;  and  remember  me  to  all  those  girls,  visible 
and  invisible,  'who  are  world -like,' their  mother  says,  'and  have 
their  wits. ' 

I  will  write  to  Mary  before  long. 

Yours  most  kindly, 

Jaije  Cablylb. 

LETTER  200. 
Mrs.  Bussell,  TTiornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  Oct.  1, 1858. 

Oh,  my  dear!  my  dear!  Will  you  ask  'the  Doctor'  what  is  the 
reason  that,  when  I  travel  from  London  to  Scotland  I  get  quite 
fresh  to  the  journey's  end,  however  weakly  I  may  have  been  at 
starting;  but  when  I  do  the  same  journey  back  again,  I  am  tired 
through  every  fibre  of  me,  and  don't  get  over  it  for  days?  I  do 
begin  to  believe  Loudon  a  perfectly  poisonous  place  for  me,  and  to 
wish  that  the  projected  Pimlico  Railway  may  actually  tear  our 
house  up,  and  turn  us  adrift  in  space!  Such  a  headache  I  had  all 
yesterday!  and  to-day  still  I  drag  myself  about  with  diflBculty. 
Really,  it  is  always  '  pursuit  of  life  under  difficulties  '  here. 

I  hope  your  picture  arrived,  and  safely.  If  it  didn't,  I  will  get 
you  another.    I  was  too  ill  with  my  head  to  write  along  with  it.   In- 


JAKE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  101 

deed  I  have  not  succeeded  yet  in  getting  my  boxes  all  unpacked.  I 
should  be  doing  that  '  duty  nearest  hand,'  for  the  moment,  if  I  were 
a  thoroughly  well-principled  woman — such  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Pringle, 
for  example — instead  of  sitting  here  writing  to  you.  But,  my  dear, 
it  is  so  much  pleasanter  this;  and  I  miss  your  kind  face  and  kind 
voice  so  much,  and  writing  to  you  is  a  sort  of  substitute  for  seeing 
and  hearing  you.  My  little  visit  to  Mary  Austin  was  verj^  pleasant. 
But  I  was  obliged  to  put  on  an  additional  box  at  the  Gill,  to  hold  the 
fresh  eggs  (!),  '  pookit  fools,'  and  other  delicacies  she  loaded  me 
with.  Then  Mr.  Carlyle  had  left  an  enormous  bundle  of  new 
clothes  to  come  with  me — the  produce  of  the  indefatigable  exertions 
of  three  tailors,  whom  he  had  kept  sewing  for  him  at  the  Gill  for 
four  weeks!  besides  a  large  package  of  books:  So  I  made  the 
journey  with  six  pieces  of  luggage,  not  counting  my  writing-case, 
travelling-bag,  and  the  beeskep,  which  last  I  let  nobody  carry  but 
myself.  It  arrived  in  the  most  perfect  state.  I  told  Mr.  C.  you 
had  sent  him  '  improper  female '  honey,  and  I  think  he  is  greatly 
charmed  with  your  immoral  present.  I  took  out  some  for  immediate 
use;  but  I  think  I  will  not  displace  the  rest. 

When  I  was  stepping  into  a  carriage  at  the  Cummertrees  station 
that  morning  (Wednesday),  a  horrid  sight  turned  me  back.  Nothing 
less  than  the  baboon  face  of  our  new  acquaintance  the  surgeon!  I 
don't  know  if  he  recognised  me;  I  dashed  into  the  next  carriage, 
and  fell  amongst  an  odious  party  of  English  tourists.  My  baboon 
friend  and  I  exchanged  glances  at  the  diif erent  stations,  where  he 
expended  his  superfluous  activity  in  fussing  to  and  fro  on  the  plat- 
form, till  finally  he  left  the  London  train  at  Lancaster.  I  wonder 
what  impression  he  left  at  Lann  Hall! 

I  find  all  extremely  right  here.  A  perfectly -cleaned  house,  and 
a  little  maid,  radiant  with  '  virtue  its  own  reward,'  and  oh,  unex- 
pected joy!  a  jet-black  kitten  added  to  the  household!  playing  with 
the  dog  as  lovingly  as  your  cat  with  your  dog!  This  acquisition  of 
Charlotte's  announced  itself  to  me  by  leaping  on  to  my  back  be- 
tween my  shoulders.  A  most  agile  kitten,  and  wonderfully  confid- 
ing. Charlotte  said  yesterday,  '  I  think  Scotland  must  be  such  a 
fresh,  airy  place!  I  should  like  to  go  there!  You  did  smell  so 
beautiful  when  you  came  in  at  the  door  last  night! '  She  is  quite  a 
jewel  of  a  servant.  Far  more  like  an  adopted  child  than  a  London 
maid-of-all-work.  And,  upon  my  word  and  honour,  her  bread  is  a 
deuced  deal  better  than  that  loaf  of  Mrs.  B 's. 

A  kiss  to— the  Doctor?  or  Nipp?  And  do  tell  Nipp  to  behave 
better  at  prayers. 


102  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

4 

Mr.  C.  has  sent  his  hook  to  your  husband.     It  goes  in  some  book- 
seller's parcel,  so  there  may  be  a  little  delay. 

[No  room  to  sign]  'J.  W.  C* 

LETTER  201. 

I  returned  from  second  German  tour. — T.  C. 

J.  O.  Cooke,  Esq. 
5  ChejTie  Eow:  Wednesday,  October  (T)  1858, 
Dear  Mr.  Cooke, — I  am  here  again — the  more's  the  pity!  Once 
for  all,  this  London  atmosphere  weighs  on  me,  I  find,  like  a  hun- 
dredweight of  lead.  No  health,  no  spirits,  one  brings  from  'the 
country '  can  bear  up  against  it.  Come  and  console  me,  at  least 
come  and  try  '  to ! ' — on  Sunday  afternoon  perhaps.  Mr.  C.  is 
home  from  his  battle-fields,  and  as  busy  and  private  as  before.  So 
my  evenings  are  now  sacred  to  reading  on  his  part,  and  mortally 
ennuying  to  myself  on  mine. 

Quoth  Burgundy,  the  living 
On  earth  have  much  to  hear.i 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  Cabltle. 

LETTER  203. 

Mrs.  Russell,  ThornhiU. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  November  1, 1858. 
Oh,  my  dear!  I  feel  so  fractious  this  evening;  should  like  to 
break  something,  or  box  somebody's  ears!  Perhaps  it  is  the  east 
wind,  perhaps  my  dinner  of  only  soup,  perhaps  original  sin ;  what- 
ever it  is,  I  must  positively  try  to  come  out  of  it,  and  the  best  way 
I  can  think  of  to  smooth  my  '  raven  down '  is  writing  some  lines 
to  you.  Your  last  letter  was  charming,  dear,  just  the  sort  of 
letter  one  wants  from  a  place  familiar  and  dcas  to  one;  all  about 
everything  and  everybody.     Since  I  knew  Mrs.   Pringle  I  have 

1  Said  Burgundy,  '  I'm  giving 
Much  toil  to  thee,  I  fear.' 
Eckart  replied,  '  The  living 
On  earth  have  much  to  bear.' 

[TIeck's  Phantasms;  the  trusty  Eckart  of  my  translating!] 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  103 

come  to  understand  and  enter  into  the  late  Lady  Ashburton's  ter- 
ror and  horror  of  what  she  called  '  all  about  feelings.' 

My  cousin  John  (George's  son)  was  here  again  the  other  day, 
and  I  never  felt  so  hopeless  about  him.  His  countenance,  his 
voice,  manner,  everything  about  him  is  changed.  And  yet  Bence 
Jones  tells  him  it  will  be  time  enough,  if  he  get  to  a  warm  climate 
before  the  spring  winds  set  in.  He  will  never  go,  I  believe,  if  he 
wait  till  spring.  I  am  going  to  Richmond  the  first  possible  day  to 
talk  to  his  mother.  She  is  the  strangest  woman — always  trying 
to  hide  her  son's  danger,  as  if  it  were  a  crime.  The  fatallest 
symptom  I  see  in  him  is  the  sanguineness  about  his  recovery,  the 
irritability  on  the  subject  of  his  health,  which  have  taken  place  of 
the  depression  he  manifested  in  summer,  while  his  state  gives  no 
reason  for  the  change  of  mood ;  on  the  contrary,  his  cough,  and  ex- 
pectoration are  greatly  increased,  and  so,  he  owns,  are  his  night- 
perspirations.  He  is  paler  and  thinner;  and,  from  being  the 
shyest,  most  silent  of  men,  he  now  talks  incessantly,  and  excitedly, 
and,  in  this  state  he  goes  about  doing  his  usual  work,  and  he  left 
here  the  other  day  after  dusk !  I  am  very  grieved  about  him.  He 
is  the  only  cousin  I  have,  that  I  have  had  any  pride  or  pleasure  in. 

Upon  my  word,  I  had  better  give  up  writing  for  this  day— noth- 
ing to  tell  but  grievances!  Well,  here  is  one  little  fact  that  will 
amuse  you.  Just  imagine,  the  bit  of  boiled  ham,  which  you  would 
hardly  let  me  have,  has  lasted  for  my  supper,  up  to  last  week;  and 
I  never  stinted  myself,  only  I  kept  it  'all  to  myself,'  like  the 
greedy  boy  of  the  story  book.  I  began  to  think  it  was  going  to 
be  a  nineteenth  century  miracle.  But  it  did  end  at  last,  and  now 
I  am  fallen  back  on  porridge  and  milk,  which  is  not  so  nice.  I 
don't  know  about  Dr.  Coupland;  I  fancied  him  an  old  man.  I 
am  curious  to  know  what  will  become  of  the  Irish  tutor. 

Love  to  the  Doctor. 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 


J.  C. 


LETTER  203. 


J.  O.  Cooke,  Esq. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Tuesday,  about  Dec.  28, 1858. 
Oh,  my  dear  kind  friend,  wliat  a  shock  for  youl     And  what  a 
loss!     The  loss  of  one's  mother!     You  can  hardly  realise  it,  yet,  so 
suddenly  and  softly  it  has  befallen;  but  I  doubt  if  there  be  any 


104  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

other  loss  ia  life  equal  to  it — so  irreplaceable,  so  all-pervading. 
And  the  consolation  given  one,  that  it  is  a  loss  '  in  the  course  of 
nature,'  and  'common  to  all  who  live  long,'  only  makes  it  the 
sadder,  to  my  thought.  Yes;  the  longer  one  lives  in  this  hard 
world  motherless,  the  more  a  mother's  loss  makes  itself  felt,  and 
understood,  the  more  tenderly  and  self-reproachfully  one  thinks 
back  over  the  time  when  one  had  her,  and  thought  so  little  of  it. 
It  is  sixteen  years  since  my  mother  died,  as  unexpectedly;  and  no 
a  day,  not  an  hour  has  passed  since  that  I  have  not  missed  her, 
have  not  felt  the  world  colder  and  blanker  for  want  of  her.  But 
that  is  no  comfort  to  offer  you. 

Come  to-morrow;  I  shall  certainly  be  at  home,  and  shall  take 
care  to  be  alone.  I  feel  very  grateful  to  you,  very,  for  liking  to 
come  to  me  at  such  a  time  of  trouble. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  204. 
Mrs.  Bussell,  ThornMU. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  December  80, 1858. 

Oh,  young  woman!  there  you  go  again!  again  a  long  silence! 
And  I  will  tell  you  how  it  willbe — your  silence  will  become  longer 
and  longer,  and  be  of  more  and  more  frequent  occurrence,  till  you 
fall  out  of  acquaintance  with  me  again,  feel  shy,  and  distrustful  with 
me,  and  speculate  about  '  not  having  the  accommodation  of  Lann 
Hall  to  offer! '  And,  oh  my  dear,  who  will  be  to  blame  for  that  state 
of  things  but  yourself?  Like  all  very  sensitive  people,  you  need 
an  atmosphere  of  the  familiar  to  open  the  leaves  of  your  soul  in. 
The  strange,  the  unaccustomed,  blights  you  like  a  frosty  night; 
and  yet,  by  procrastination,  which  your  copy-lines  told  you  was 
'  the  root  of  all  evil, '  you  suffer  the  familiar  to  become,  by  little 
and  little,  that  'strange,'  which  has  such  withering  effects  on 
you.  Please  don't,  not  in  my  case,  for  Heaven's  sake!  The  more 
you  don't  write  to  me,  the  more  you  will  find  it  uphill  work  when 
you  do  write,  and  from  that,  to  speaking  about  '  the  accommoda- 
tion of  Lann  Hall,'  is  but  a  step  or  two  in  a  straight  line.  You 
write  such  nice  letters  when  your  hand  is  in,  that  they  cannot  be  a 
labour  to  write.     Then  do,  my  dear,  keep  your  hand  in. 

Meanwhile,  I  have  sent  you  a  New  Year's  gift,  which,  if  it 
come  to  hand  safe,  will,  1  am  sure,  at  least  I  hope,  give  you  a 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  105 

pleasant  surprise;  for  really  it  will  be  like  seeing  into  our  interior 
in  a  peep-show.  It  is  the  only  one,  of  the  size  that  exists  as  yet, 
and  I  had  it  done  on  purpose  for  you.  Another,  smaller,  is- gone, 
inside  of  a  large  picture-book  for  Mrs.  Pringle's  children,  to  Robert 
MacTurk,  a  sort  of  amende  honarable  for  having  failed  to  give  him 
myself — Good  God!  when  he  had  some  right  to  expect  it — long 
ago,  when  I  was  an  extremely  absurd  little  girl.  His  good  feeling 
towards  me,  after  all,  deserves  a  certain  esteem  from  me,  and  a 
certain  recognition,  which,  I  hope,  has  been  put  into  an  acceptable 
form  for  him  in  the  peep-show ! 

But  I  must  not  be  expatiating  over  things  in  general  to-day;  for 
I  am  in  a  dreadful  hurry,  a  great  many  letters  to  be  written,  be- 
sides that  it  is  my  day  for  driving  out  in  what  our  livery-stable 
keepers  call  a  neat  fly,  viz.,  a  second-hand  brougham  with  one 
horse — an  expensive  luxury,  which  Mr.  C.  forces  on  me  twice  a 
week  '  now  that  I  am  old  and  frail,  and  have  a  right  to  a  little  in- 
dulgence,' he  says. 

The  fact  is,  I  have  been  belated  in  my  letters,  and  everything, 
this  week,  by  having  had  to  give  from  two  to  three  hours  every 
day  to  a  man  who  has  unexpectedly  lost  his  mother.  He  has  five 
sisters  here,'  and  female  friends  world  without  end— is,  in  fact,  of 
all  men  I  know,  the  most  popular;  and  such  is  relationship  and 
friendship  in  London,  that  he  has  fled  away  from  everybody  to 
me,  who  wasn't  aware  before  that  I  was  his  particular  friend  the 
least  in  the  world.  But  I  have  always  had  the  same  sort  of  attrac- 
tion for  miserable  people  and  for  mad  people  that  amber  has  for 
straws.     Why  or  how,  I  have  no  idea. 

Mrs.  Pringle  wrote  me  a  long  really  nice  letter,  in  answer  to  my 
acknowledgment  of  the  intimation  of  her  uncle's  death.  She  is  a 
clever  woman  (as  the  Doctor  says),  and  has  discovered  now,  no 
doubt,  that  the  style  which  suits  me  best  is  the  natural  and  simple 
style,  and'that  my  soul  cannot  be  thrown  into  deliquium,  by  any 
hundred-horse  power  of  upholstery  or  of  moral  sublime.  She  is 
nice  as  she  is. 

I  will  get  the  money  order  for  the  poor  women,  in  passing  the 
post-oflSce,  and  inclose  it  for  your  kind  offices.  Kindest  regards  to 
the  Doctor,  for  whom  I  have  a  new  story  about  Locock.  God 
keep  you  both,  for  me,  and  so  many  that  need  you. 

Yours, 

J.  W.  Caklyle. 


'  Can't  remember  Mm  (J.  Q.  Cooke?). 

U.-5* 


106  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


LETTER  205. 

Miss  Barnes,  a  very  pretty,  amiable,  modest,  and  clever  young 
lady,  was  the  Doctor's  one  daugliter;  is  now  Mrs.  Simmonds,  of 
this  neighbourhood  (wife  of  a  rising  barrister),  and  was  always  a 
great  favourite  with  my  darling. — T.  C. 

Miss  Barnes,  King's  Boad,  Chelsea. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Monday,  Jiine  1859. 

Dear  Miss  Barnes, — Your  father  left  a  message  for  me  this  morn- 
ing, the  answer  to  which  I  expected  him  to  '  come  and  take '  when 
he  had  done  with  our  next-door  neighbour.  But  blessed  are  they 
who  expect  nothing,  for  they  shall  not  be  disappointed. 

Pray  come  to  tea  with  me  to-morrow  evening  at  seven,  if  my 
husband's  particular  friends  'the  Destinies,'  alias  'the  Upper  Pow- 
ers, '  alias  '  the  Immortal  Gods '  (your  father  says  you  read  Mr.  C. , 
so  you  will  understand  me),  don't  interfere  to  keep  you  away. 

I  will  drop  this  at  your  door  in  passing  for  my  drive,  and,  along 
with  it,  a  piece  of  old,  old  German  crockery,  which  had  the  hon- 
our to  catch  your  father's  eye  and  has  set  its  heart  on  belonging  to 
him.     So  don't  let  it  get  broken — till  he  have  seen  it  at  least. 

All  you  know  of  me  as  yet  is  that  I  seem  to  be  in  the  very  low- 
est state  as  to  penmanship.  But  I  assure  you  I  can  write  much 
more  tidily  than  this,  made  with  the  back  of  the  very  worst  pen  in 
the  created  world ! 

And  if  you  will  bring  with  you  to-morrow  evening  whatever 
stock  you  may  have  of  'faith,  hope,  and  charity,'  I  have  no  doubt 
but  we  shall  become  good  friends. 

Yours  truly, 

Jane  "Welsh  Carlyle, 

LETTER  206. 

This  year  1859  it  was  resolved,  for  the  hot  weather,  that  '  Fred- 
erick '  should  be  thrown  aside,  and  Fife  and  the  North  be  our  ref- 
uge for  a  month  or  two.  We  had  secured  a  tolerable  upper  floor 
in  the  farmhouse  of  Humble,  close  by  pleasant  Aberdour;  we  had 
great  need,  especially  she  had,  of  all  the  good  it  could  do  us.  I 
went  by  steamer  with  clever  little  Charlotte,  my  horse,  and  Nero; 
remember  somewhat  of  the  dreariness,  the  mean  confusion,  ennui; 
got  at  last  to  Granton,  where  brother  John  from  Edinburgh  joined 
me  to  accompany  across  the  Frith.  Our  first  talk  was  of  poor  Isa- 
bella of  Scotsbrig,'  who  had  died  a  few  weeks  before,  a  permanent 
loss  to  all  of  us. 

'  Mrs.  James  Carlyle. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  107 

My  own  Jeannie,  frail  exceedingly,  had  gone  by  rail  to  Hadding- 
ton; in  a  few  days  more  she  joined  Charlotte  and  me  at  Humbie; 
for  a  month  after  that  at  '  Auchtertool  House'  (a  big,  goodish 
bouse,  rather  in  disrepair,  for  wliich  no  special  rent,  only  some  vol- 
untary for  such  politeness,  could  be  accepted),  for  above  a  month 
more. 

Fife  was  profoundly  interesting  to  me,  but  also  (unexpectedly), 
sad,  dreary,  troublesome,  lonely,  peopled  only  by  the  ghosts  of 
the  past.  My  poor  darling  in  Humbie  Wood  with  me;  weak, 
weak!  could  not  walk,  durst  not  (really  durst  not)  sit  on  the  loyal 
willing  Fritz,  with  me  leading;  got  her  a  cuddy  (donkey)  from 
Dumfries  (none  to  be  heard  of  in  Fife),  but  that  also  was  but  half 
successful.  She  did  improve  a  little;  was  visibly  better  when  I 
rejoined  her  at  home.  For  myself  I  had  ridden  fiercely  (generally 
in  tragic  humour),  walked  ditto  late  in  the  woods  at  night,  &c., 
bathed,  &c.,  hoping  still  to  recover  myself  by  force  in  that  way, 
'more  like  a  man  of  sixteen  than  of  sixty-four,'  as  I  often  heard 
it  said  by  an  ever-loving  voice!  It  was  the  last  time  I  tried  the  boy 
method.  Final  Fife  (particulars  not  worth  giving)  had  a  certain 
gloomy  beauty  to  me — strange,  grand,  sad  as  the  grave ! — T.  C. 


J.  O.  Cooke,  Esq. ,  Mount  Street,  W. 

Humbie,  Aberdour,  Fife:  Saturday. 

My  dear  Friend, — I  was  very  glad  of  your  letter,  not  only  be- 
cause it  was  a  letter  from  you,  but  a  sign  that  you  had  fai-given  me 
—or,  still  better — that  you  had  never  been  offended !  I  assure  you, 
an  hour  or  two  later,  when  left  alone  and  quiet  in  the  railway  car- 
riage, I  wondered,  as  much  as  you  could  do,  what  demon  inspired 
the  tasteless  jest  with  which  I  bade  you  goodbye!  in  presence  too, 
of  the  most  gossiping  and  romancing  of  all  our  mutual  acquaint- 
ances! I  was  so  tired  that  day!  Oh  my  heavens!  so  tired!  And 
fatigue,  which  makes  an  healthy  human  being  sleepy,  makes  me, 
in  my  present  nervous  state,  delirious.  That  is  my  excuse — the 
only  one  1  have  to  make,  at  least— for  the  foolish  words  I  took 
leave  of  you  with. 

Mrs.  Hawkes  will  have  told  you  that  I  arrived  safe,  and  that  I 
am  quite  content  with  the  '  Farmhouse.'  It  commands  the  beauti- 
fullest  view  in  the  world,  and  abundance  of  what  ]\Ir.  C.  calls  '  soft 
food '  (new  milk,  fresh  eggs,  whey,  &c.).  The  people  are  obliging; 
and  the  lodging  very  clean.  Mr.  C.  bathes  in  the  sea  every  morn- 
ing, lyrically  recognises  the  'pure  air,' and  the  'soft  food;'  and, 
if  not  essentially  in  better  health,  is  in  what  is  almost  as  good — that 
make-the-best-of-everything  state,  which  men  get  into  when  carry- 
ing out  their  own  idea;  and  only  then! 


108  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Charloite '  is  the  happiest  of  girls!  not  that  she  seems  to  have 
much  sensibility  for  the  '  Beauties  of  Nature,'  nor  that  her  health 
was  susceptible  of  improvement,  but  that  the  '  kindness  of  Scotch 
people '  fills  her  with  wonder  and  delight.  '  Young  men  that  don't 
so  much  as  know  her  name,  passing  her  on  the  road,  say  to  her, 
Bonnie  wee  lassie ! '  And  the  farmer  here  gave  her  '  a  little  sugar 
rabbit,'  and  said  to  her  'Little  girl,  you  are  growing  quite  pretty 
since  you  came.'  Did  I  ever  hear  of  such  kind  people?  The 
horse  also  likes  'the  change.'  Mr.  C.  says  '  he  is  a  much  improved 
horse ;  is  in  perfect  raptures  over  his  soft  food  (grass  and  new  hay) 
but  incapable  of  recovering  from  his  astonishment  at  the  badness 
of  the  Fife  roads! '  Nero  bathes  with  his  master  from  a  sense  of 
duty;  and  is  gradually  shaking  off  the  selfish  torpor  that  had  seized 
upon  him  in  London :  he  snores  less,  thinks  of  other  things  besides  his 
food ;  and  shows  some  of  his  old  fondness  for  me.  Mj^self  is  the  indi- 
vidual of  the  party  who  has  derived  least  benefit  hitherto  from  the 
place  and  its  advantages.  Indeed,  I  am  weaker  than  before  I  left 
home.  But  great  expectations  are  entertained  from — an  ass  (cuddy 
they  call  it  here!)  which  arrived  for  me  from  Dumfriesshire  last 
night.  My  own  choice  of  animal  to  ride  upon!  Mr.  C.  mounted 
me  twice  on  the  enraptured  and  astonished  horse.  But  a  cuddy 
will  suit  better;  as  Betty  remarked  when  she  was  here,  'its  fine 
and  near  the  grand,  dear.  It'll  no  be  far  to  fa'  ! '  The  farmer 
says,  'I  hope  it'll  gang!  Them  creturs  is  sometimes  uncommon 
fond  to  stand  still! '  I  am  just  going  to  try  it.  Geraldine  sent  me 
a  note  that  looked  iike  being  written  on  a  ship  in  a  storm  at  sea. 
Such  scrawling  and  blotting  I  never  beheld,  and  the  sense  to 
match!  If  Mr.  Mantel  makes  his  way  here,  we  shall  give  him  a 
friendly  welcome ;  but  it  is  a  much  more  laborious  affair  than  from 
London  to  Richmond. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  W.  Caeltlk. 

LETTER  207. 

Miss  Barnes,  King's  Road,  Chelsea. 

Auchtertool  House,  Kirkcaldy  ..Aug.  34, 1859. 
My  dear  Miss  Barnes, — How  nice  of  you  to  have  written  me  a 
letter,  '  all  out  of  your  own  head '  (as  the  children  say),  and  how 
very  nice  of  you  to  have  remarked  the  forget-me-not,  and  read  a 

1  Mrs.  Carlyle's  maid. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  109 

meaning  in  it!  It  was  certainly  with  intention  I  tied  up  some  for- 
get-me-nots along  with  my  farewell  roses;  but  I  was  far  from  sure 
of  your  recognising  the  intention,  and  at  the  same  time  not  young 
enough  to  make  it  plainer.  Sentiment,  you  see,  is  not  well  looked 
on  by  the  present  generation  of  women;  there  is  a  growing  taste 
for  fastness,  or,  still  worse,  for  strong-mindedness!  so  a  discreet 
woman  (like  me)  will  beware  always  of  putting  her  sentiment 
(when  she  has  any)  in  evidence — will  rather  leave  it — as  in  the  for- 
get-me-not case — to  be  divined  through  sympathy;  and  failing  the 
sympathy,  to  escape  notice. 

And  you  are  actually  going  to  get  married!  you!  already!  And 
you  expect  me  to  congratulate  you!  or  'perhaps  not.'  I  admire 
the  judiciousness  of  that  'perhaps  not.'  Frankly,  my  dear,  I  wish 
you  all  happiness  in  the  new  life  that  is  opening  to  you ;  and  you 
are  marrying  under  good  auspices,  since  your  father  approves  of 
the  marriage.  But  congratulation  on  such  occasions  seems  to  me 
a  tempting  of  Providence.  The  triumphal-procession-air  which, 
in  our  manners  and  customs,  is  given  to  marriage  at  the  outset — 
that  singing  of  Te  Deum  before  the  battle  has  begun — has,  ever 
since  I  could  reflect,  struck  me  as  somewhat  senseless  and  some- 
what impious.  If  ever  one  is  to  pray — if  ever  one  is  to  feel  grave 
and  anxious — if  ever  one  is  to  shrink  from  vain  show  and  vain 
babble — surely  it  is  just  on  the  occasion  of  two  human  beings 
binding  themselves  to  one  another,  for  better  and  for  worse,  till 
death  part  them;  just  on  that  occasion  which  it  is  customary  to 
celebrate  only  with  rejoicings,  and  congratulations,  and  trousseaux, 
and  white  ribbon!     Good  God! 

Will  you  think  me  mad  if  I  tell  you  that  when  I  read  your 
words,  '  I  am  going  to  be  married,'  I  all  but  screamed?  Positively, 
it  took  away  my  breath,  as  if  I  saw  you  in  the  act  of  taking  a  fly- 
ing leap  into  infinite  space.  You  had  looked  to  me  such  a  happy, 
happy  little  girl!  your  father's  only  daughter;  and  he  so  fond  of 
you,  as  he  evidently  was.  After  you  liad  walked  out  of  our  house 
together  that  night,  and  I  had  gone  up  to  my  own  room,  I  sat 
down  there  in  the  dark,  and  took  'a  good  cry.'  You  had  re- 
minded me  so  vividly  of  my  own  youth,  when  I,  also  an  only 
daughter — an  only  child — had  a  father  as  fond  of  me,  as  proud  of 
me.  I  wondered  if  you  knew  your  own  happiness.  Well!  know- 
ing it  or  not,  it  has  not  been  enough  for  you,  it  would  seem.  Nat- 
urally, youth  is  so  insatiable  of  happiness,  and  has  such  sublimely 
insane  faith  in  its  own  power  to  make  happy  and  be  happy. 


110  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

But  of  your  father?  Who  is  to  cheer  his  toilsome  life,  and  make 
home  bright  for  him?  His  companion  through  half  a  lifetime 
gone!  his  dear  'bit  of  rubbish'  gone  too,  though  in  a  different 
sense.  Oh,  little  girl!  little  girl!  do  you  know  the  blank  you  will 
make  to  him? 

Now,  upon  my  honour,  I  seem  to  be  writing  just  such  a  letter  as 
a  raven  might  write  if  it  had  been  taught.  Perhaps  the  henbane  I 
took  in  despair  last  night  has  something  to  do  with  my  mood  to- 
day. Anyhow,  when  one  can  only  ray  out  darkness,  one  had  best 
clap  an  extinguisher  on  oneself.     And  so  God  bless  you! 

Sincerely  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  208. 

To  George  Cooke,  Esq. 

Auchtertool  House,  Kirkcaldy:  Friday. 
I  am  not  at  the  manse,  but  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  of 
it,  in  a  large  comfortable  house  lent  us  by  a  Mr.  Liddell;  and  we 
should  have  done  well  here  had  not  Mr.  C.  walked  and  rode  and 
bathed  himself  into  a  bilious  crisis  just  before  leaving  Humble; 
so  that  he  began  life  under  the  most  untoward  auspices.  For  the 
first  fortnight,  indeed,  it  was,  so  far  as  myself  was  concerned,  more 
like  being  keeper  in  a  madhouse  than  being  '  in  the  country '  for 
'quiet  and  change.'  Things  are  a  little  subsided  now,  however, 
and  in  spite  of  the  wear  and  tear  on  my  nerves,  I  am  certainly  less 
languid  and  weak  than  during  all  my  stay  in  the  farmhouse. 
Whether  it  be  that  the  air  of  Auchtertool  suits  me  better  than  that 
of  Aberdour,  or  that  having  my  kind  little  cousins  within  cry  is  a 
wholesome  diversion,  or  that  it  required  a  continuance  of  country 
air  to  act  upon  my  feebleness,  I  am  not  competent  to  say,  nor  is  it 
of  the  slightest  earthly  consequence  what  the  cause  is,  so  that  the 
effect  has  been  as  I  tell  j^ou. 

LETTER  209. 
T.  Carlyle,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

York,  Scawin's  Hotel:  Thursday,  Sept.  22, 1859. 

There!  I  have  done  it!    You  prophesied  my  heart  would  fail  me 

when  it  came  to   the   point,  and  I  would    'just  rush  straight  on 

again  to  the  end.'    But  my  heart  didn't  fai4  me,  'or  rather' (to 

speak  like  Dr.  Carlyle)  it  did  fail  me  horribly!  but  my  memory 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  Ill 

held  true,  and  kept  me  up  to  the  mark.  With  the  recollection  of 
the  agonies  of  tiredness  I  suffered  on  the  journey  down,  and  for 
many  days  after,  still  tingling  through  my  nerves,  I  took  no  coun- 
sel with  my  heart,  but  kept  determined  to  not  expose  myself  to 
that  again,  whatever  else  (bugs  inclusive).  And,  so  far,  I  have 
reason  to  congratulate  myself;  for  I  was  getting  '  quite'  done  up 
by  the  time  we  reached  York,  and  I  am  now  very  comfortable  in 
my  inn,  with  prospects  for  the  night  not  bad!  If  ouly  there  be  no 
'small  beings'  (as  Mazzini  prettily  styles  them)  in  the  elegant 
green- curtained  bed  of  number  44,  Scawin's. 

I  am  sitting  writing  in  that  number,  by  the  side  of  a  bright  little 
fire;  which  I  ordered  to  be  lighted,  the  first  thing,  on  my  arrival. 
While  it  was  burning  up,  I  went  down  and  had  tea  in  the  '  ladies' 
coflfee-room,'  where  was  no  fire,  but  also  no  ladies!  They  brought 
me  very  nice  tea  and  mufiins,  and  I  'asked  for'  cream!  !  and  for 
an  egg!  !  !  'And  it  was  all  very  comfortable!'  I  think  I  shall 
order  some  supper  when  the  time  comes;  but  I  haven't  been  able 
to  decide  what  yet.  There  isn't  a  sound  in  the  house,  nor  in  the 
back  court  that  my  windows  look  out  on.  It  is  hardly  to  be  hoped 
such  quiet  can  last.  Trains  will  come  in  during  the  night,  and  I 
shall  hear  them,  anyhow;  for  this  hotel,  though  not  the  Railway 
Station  Hotel,  is  just  outside  the  station  gate.  It  was  Eliza  Liddell 
who  recommended  it  to  me.  I  never  was  in  an  inn,  all  by  myself, 
before;  except  one  night  years  ago,  in  the  '  George '  at  Haddington, 
which  was  not  exactly  an  inn  to  me ;  and  I  like  the  feeling  of  it 
unexpectedly  well !  The  freedom  at  once  from  '  living's  cares, 
that  is  cares  of  bread,'  the  pride  of  being  one's  own  mistress  and 
own  protector,  all  tliat  lifts  me  into  a  certain  exaltation,  '  regard- 
less of  expense.'  And  now  I  am  going  to  ring  my  bell,  and  order  a 
pair  of  candles! 

Candles  come!  a  pair  of  composite — not  wax,  'thanks  God''  I 
shall  breakfast  here  in  peace  and  quietness  to-morrow  morning; 
and  leave  by  a  train  that  starts  at  ten,  and  reaches  London  at  four; 
and  shall  so  avoid  night  air,  which  would  not  suit  me  at  present. 
It  has  grown  very  cold,  within  the  last  two  weeks;  and  I  was  as 
near  catching  a  regular  bad  cold  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life  without 
doing  it!  Tlie  habit  I  took  of  waking  at  four  at  Auchtcrtool  con- 
tinued at  Morningside,  where  tliere  was  much  disturbance  from 
carts  'going  to  the  lime.'  The  morning  I  left  was  chill  and  damp; 
and  I  rose  at  six,  tired  of  lying  still,  and  dawdled  about  my  room, 
packing,  till  I  took  what  Anne  used  to  call  '  the  cold  shivers.' 


112  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Mrs.  Binnie's  warm  welcome  and  warm  dinner  failed  to  warm  me; 
which  was  a  pity ;  for  Mrs.  Godby  had  arrived  and  the  short  visit 
would  have  been  extremely  pleasant,  but  for  my  chill.  My  tongue 
and  throat  became  very  sore  towards  night.  Next  day  I  felt  quite 
desperate;  but  Mrs.  Godby  gave  me  a  stiff  tumbler  of  brandy  toddy, 
in  the  forenoon,  before  I  started;  and  her  brother  sent  me,  in  his 
carriage,  straight  to  Sunny  Bank,  so  as  to  avoid  the  cold  waiting 
at  Long  Niddry,  and  the  other  risks  of  the  train ;  and  on  arriving 
at  Sunny  Bank,  I  swallowed  two  glasses  of  wine,  and  then,  at  bed- 
time, a  stiff  tumbler  of  whisky  toddy!!!  and  so  on,  for  the  next 
two  days  fairly  battling  down  the  cold  with  '  stimulants.'  I  think 
I  shall  escape  now,  if  I  take  reasonable  care.  Pity  there  should  be 
'  always  a  something '!  But  for  this  apprehension  of  an  overhang- 
ing illness,  and  these  horrid  'cold  shivers,'  I  should  have  enjoyed 
my  last  visit  to  Sunny  Bank  so  much.  They  were  so  much  better — 
the  house  so  much  cheerf  uller  with  Eliza  there,  and  so  many  people 
came  to  see  me  that  I  liked  to  see.  Even  when  I  left,  this  morn- 
ing, I  did  not  despair  of  seeing  them  again ! ' 

Surely  you  will  never  be  so  rude  to  that  good-humoured  Lady 
Stanley  as  to  fling  her  over  after  all.  Besides,  Alderley  would  make 
so  good  a  resting-place  for  you  on  the  long  journey.  I  hope  to  get 
things  into  their  natural  condition  before  you  arrive. 

Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

Love  to  Mary.  I  hope  she  liked  her  picture.  You  never  saw 
such  a  pen  as  I  am  writing  with! 

LETTER  210. 

T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  Sept.  26, 1859. 
Two  letters  to  be  forwarded,  or  catch  me  having  put  pen  to 
paper  this  day,  I  am  so  tired,  Oh  my!  I  never!  A  good  sleep 
would  have  put  me  to  rights,  but  that  hasn't  come  yet.  In  spite  of 
the  stillness,  and  the  good  bed,  and  the  all-my-own-way,  I  do  noth- 
ing but  fall  asleep,  and  start  up,  and  light  matches,  till  four 
o'clock  strikes,  and  after  that  I  lie  awake,  wishing  it  were  break- 
fast-time. What  a  wise  woman  I  was  to  come  home  by  myself, 
and  get  my  fatigues  done  out  before  you  arrived.      I  am  not  going 

1  Never  did.  alas  I 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  113 

out  to-day,  nor  was  I  out  yesterday,  but  on  Saturday  afternoon  I 
trailed  myself  to  Silvester's,  and  saw  the  horse — 'just  come  in  from 
being  exercised,'  'in    capital  condition,'  'so  fat!'  Silyester  said, 

clapping  its  buttock,  '  and  so  spirity  that  he  never ! '    The  stable 

seemed  good  and  very  clean.  I  think  them  most  respectable  people. 
And  the  distance  is  less  than  to 's.' 

If  you  could  conveniently  bring  a  small  bag  of  meal  with 
you  from  Scotsbrig,  it  would  be  welcome;  we  have  none  but 
some  Fife  meal,  which  is  very  inferior  to  the  Annandale.  At  all 
events,  you  could  ask  Jamie  to  send  us  a  few  stone,  say  four,  and  if 
Mary  would  give  us  a  little  jar  of  butter,  like  what  she  sent  with 
me  last  year,  it  '  wud  be  a  great  advantage.'  ^ 

I  find  everything  in  the  house  perfectly  safe — no  bugs,  no  moths, 
grates  unrusted,  much  more  care  having  been  taken  than  when 
Anne  was  left  in  it,  with  wages,  and  board  wages,  at  least  in  the 
last  years  of  Anne's  incumbency.  Mrs.  Southern  is  an  excellent 
woman,  I  do  believe,  and  Charlotte  is  already  the  better  for  being 
back  beside  her — away  from  Thomson's  and  Muat's.^ 

Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 


LETTER  211. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Alderley  Park,  Congleton. 

5  ChejTie  Row.  Chelsea:  Thursday,  Sept.  29, 1859. 
Thanks!  Just  one  line,  that  you  may  not  be  fancying  me  past 
writing.  But  there  is  no  time  for  a  letter.  I  am  shocked  to  find 
how  late  it  is.  I  fell  to  putting  down  the  clean  drugget,  in  the 
drawing-room,  '  with  my  own  hands,'  *  that  you  might  not  on  your 
first  arrival  receive  the  same  impression  of  profound  gloom 
from  the  dark  green  carpet,  that  drove  myself  towards  thoughts  of 
suicide!  And,  behold,  the  seams  had  given  way  in  many  places  at 
the  washing;  and  I  have  had  to  sit  on  the  floor  like  a  tailor,  stitch- 
ing, stitching,  and  so  the  time  passed  away  unremarked,  and  it  now 

»  The  arsenic  place !  My  poor  '  Fritz '  had  been  suddenly  taken  to  Salter's, 
Eaton  Square,  and  for  a  year  or  more  had  been  quite  coming  round  then. 

'  Good  East  Lothian  woman's  speech  to  me,  on  the  return  from  Dunbar  and 
the  plagues  of  Irishry,  &c.  &c.  (f  seventeen  years  ago):  'If  the  wund  would 
fa',  it  wud  be,'  &c. 

'  Names  merely — unknown. 

*  '  Signed  it,  with  my  own  hand '  (Edward  Irving,  forty  years  ago). 


114  LETTEKS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

is  long  past  my  dinner-time,  and  no  dinner  so  much  as  thought  of, 
in  spite  of  Charlotte's  repeated  questions. 

I  will  put  myself  in  an  omnibus,  and  go  up  to  Michel's  in  Sloane 
Street,  and  dine  on  a  plate  of  soup.  Woman  wants  but  little  here 
below — after  a  railway  journey  from  Scotland  especially. 

I  am  glad  you  have  gone  to  Alderley.  I  have  slept  a  degree  bet- 
ter the  last  two  nights;  but  have  still  much  to  make  up  in  that  way. 
Don't  hurry  on,  if  you  do  well  at  the  Stanleys'.  Kind  regards  to 
the  lady. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 
LETTER  812. 

'Butcher's  cart  passed  over  Nero's  throat.'  Poor  little  foolish 
faithful  dog!  it  killed  him  after  all;  was  never  well  again.  He 
died  in  some  four  months  (Feb.  1,  1860,  as  the  little  tablet  said, 
while  visible)  with  a  degree  of  pitying  sorrow  even  from  me,  which 
I  am  still  surprised  at. 

The  wreck  of  poor  Nero,  who  had  to  be  strychnined  by  the  doc- 
tor, was,  and  is  still,  memorable,  sad  and  miserable  to  me,  the  last 
nocturnal  walk  he  took  with  me,  his  dim  white  little  figure  in  the 
universe  of  dreary  black,  and  my  then  mood  about  '  Frederick ' 
and  other  things. 

Holmhill  is  half  a  mile  from  the  village  of  Thornhill.  Dr.  Rus- 
sell withdrawing  from  regular  business  there. — T.  C. 

Mrs.  Russell,  TJiornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  "Wednesday,  October  30, 1859. 
Dearest  Mary,— 'If  you  but  knew  how  I  have  been  situated!' 
(my  husband's  favourite  phrase).  First,  I  arrived  so  tired!  oh  so 
dead  tired!  Notwithstanding  that,  I  actually  summoned  nerve  to 
put  in  effect  my  often  cherished  idea  of  sleeping  at  York  (half-way) 
alone  in  an  inn.  Odd  that  I  should  never,  at  this  age,  have  done 
that  thing  before,  in  my  life,  except  once,  when,  after  an  absence 
of  eighteen  years,  I  spent  a  night  incognita  in  the  George  Inn  of 
Haddington,  where  I  could  not  feel  myself  a  mere  traveller.  It 
was  a  proof  that  my  nerves  were  stronger,  if  not  my  limbs,  that  I 
really  carried  out  the  York  speculation,  when  it  came  to  the  point. 
It  would  certainly  have  been  again  a  failure,  however,  but  for  a 
lady  in  Fife  telling  me  of  a  comfortable  inn  to  stop  at.  I  was  to 
ask,  on  getting  out  of  the  carriage,  '  was  any  porter  from  Mrs.  Sea- 
win's  here?' which  I  had  no  sooner  done,  than  the  name  Scawin 
was  shouted  out  in  the  sound  of  '  So  wens ! '  to  my  great  shame  I  I 
feeling  as  if  everybody  knew  where  I  was  going,  and  that  it  was 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  115 

my  first  adventure  of  the  sort !  !  But  I  was  comfortably  and  quietly 
lodged ;  no  bugs,  no  anything  to  molest  me,  only  that  the  tumult 
in  my  own  blood  kept  me  awake  all  night;  so  that  I  arrived  here 
as  tired,  next  evening,  as  if  I  had  come  the  wliole  road  at  one 
horrid  rush.  And  I  hadn't  much  time  allowed  me  to  rest;  for, 
though  Charlotte  had  got  down  all  the  carpets,  there  were  still 
quantities  of  details  for  me  to  do,  before  Mr.  C.  came.  And  he 
stayed  only  a  week  behind  me. 

When  the  house  was  all  in  order  for  him,  my  cares  were  destined 
to  take  another  turn,  even  more  engrossing.  Just  the  night  before 
his  arrival,  Charlotte  went  to  some  shops,  taking  the  dog  with  her, 
and  brought  him  home  in  her  arms,  all  crumpled  together  like  a 
crushed  spider,  and  his  poor  little  eyes  protruding,  and  fixedly  star- 
ing in  his  head!  A  butcher's  cart,  driving  furiously  round  a 
sharp  corner,  had  passed  over  poor  little  Nero's  throat!  and  not 
killed  him  on  the  spot!  But  he  looked  killed  enough  at  the  first. 
When  I  tried  to  '  stand  him  on  the  ground  '  (as  the  servants  here 
say),  he  flopped  over  on  his  side,  quite  stiff  and  unconscious!  You 
may  figure  my  sensations!  and  I  durst  not  show  all  my  grief; 
Charlotte  was  so  distressed,  and  really  could  not  have  helped  it!  I 
put  him  in  a  warm  bath,  and  afterwards  wrapped  him  warmly,  and 
laid  him  on  a  pillow,  and  left  him,  without  much  hope  of  finding 
him  alive  in  the  morning.  But  in  the  morning  he  still  breathed, 
though  incapable  of  any  movement;  but  he  swallowed  some  warm 
milk  that  I  put  into  his  mouth.  About  midday  I  was  saying  aloud, 
'Poor  dog!  poor  little  Nero! '  when  I  saw  the  bit  tail  trying  to  wag 
itself!  and  after  that,  I  had  good  hopes.  In  another  day  he  could 
raise  his  head  to  lap  the  milk  himself.  And  so,  by  little  and  little, 
he  recovered  the  use  of  himself:  but  it  was  ten  days  before  he  was 
able  to  raise  a  bark,  his  first  attempt  was  like  the  scream  of  an 
infant!  It  has  been  a  revelation  to  me,  this,  of  the  strength  of  the 
throat  of  a  dog!  !  Mr.  C.  says,  if  the  wheel  had  gone  over  any- 
where else,  it  would  have  killed  him.  A  gentleman  told  me  the 
other  night  that  lie  once  saw  a  fine  large  dog  run  over;  the  great 
wheel  of  one  of  Pickford's  heavy-laden  vans  went  over  its  throat!  I 
And  the  dog  just  rose  up  and  shook  itself!!  It  next  staggered  a 
little  to  one  side,  and  then  a  little  to  the  other,  as  if  drunk,  then  it 
steadied  itself,  and  walked  composedly  home! 

When  I  was  out  of  trouble  with  my  dog,  I  had  time  to  feel  how 
very  relaxing  and  depressing  the  air  of  Chelsea  was  for  me,  as 
usual,  after  the  bracing  climate  of  Scotland.     I  was  perfectly  done, 


116  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

till  Mr.  C.  insisted  on  setting  up  the  carriage  again,  and  Providence 
put  me  on  drinking  water  out  of  a  'bitter  cup;'  that  is  a  new  in- 
vention, very  popular  here  this  year! — a  cup  made  of  the  wood  of 
quassia,  which  makes  the  water  quite  bitter  in  a  minute ;  of  course, 
a  chip  of  quassia  put  into  water  would  have  the  same  effect;  but 
nobody  ever  bid  me  take  that!  I  thought,  for  three  or  four  days, 
that  I  had  discovered  the  grand  panacea  of  life!  I  felt  so  hungry! 
and  so  cheerful!  !  and  so  active!  But  one  night  I  was  seized  with 
the  horridest  cramps!  which  quite  took  the  shine  out  of  quassia  for 
me,  though  I  daresay  it  was  merely  that  I  had  quite  neglected  my 
bowels.  I  haven't  had  courage  to  re-commence  with  the  '  bitter 
cup;'  but  it  will  come!  Meanwhile  I  am  pretty  well  over  the 
bilious  crisis  that  has  befallen,  to  '  remind  me  that  I  am  but  a 
woman ! '  and  a  very  frail  one  (I  mean  in  a  physical  sense) ! 

How  pleasant  it  will  be  to  think  of  you  at  that  pretty  Holmhill! 
though  one  will  always  have  a  tender  feeling  towards  the  'old 
rambling  house,'  where  we  have  had  such  good  days  together. 
But  the  other  place  will  be  for  the  good  of  your  health,  as  well  as 
more  agreeable,  when  you  have  once  got  over  the  pain  of  change, 
which  is  painful  to  good  hearts,  though  it  may  be  joyful  enough  to 
light  ones.  It  will  also  be  a  comfort  to  my  mind  to  think  of  that 
drawing-room  getting  papered  all  with  one  sort  of  paper! 

God  bless  you.     Love  to  your  husband. 

J.  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  213. 

To  Mrs.  Stirling,  Hill  Street,  Edinburgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  October  21, 1859. 

You  dear  nice  woman !  there  you  are !  a  bright  cheering  appari- 
tion to  surprise  one  on  a  foggy  October  morning,  over  one's  break- 
fast— that  most  trying  institution  for  people  who  are  '  nervous'  and 
'don't  sleep!' 

It  (the  photograph)  made  our  breakfast  this  morning  'pass  off,' 
like  the  better  sorts  of  breakfasts  in  Deerbrook,  '  in  which  people 
seemed  to  have  come  into  the  world  chiefly  to  eat  breakfast  in 
every  possible  variety  of  temper! 

Blessed  be  the  inventor  of  photography!  I  set  him  above  even 
the  inventor  of  chloroform!  It  has  given  more  positive  pleasure 
to  poor  suffering  humanity  than  anything  that  has  'cast 'up 'in 

1  The  Deerbrook  breakfasts  refer  to  Miss  Martineau'a  poor  novel. 
*  Turned. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  117 

my  time  or  is  like  to — this  art  by  which  even  the  '  poor  '  can  pos- 
sess themselves  of  tolerable  likenesses  of  their  absent  dear  ones. 
And  mustn't  it  be  acting  favourably  on  the  morality  of  the  country? 
I  assure  I  have  often  gone  into  my  own  room,  in  the  devil's  own 
humour — ready  to  swear  at  'things  in  general,'  and  some  things  in 
particular — and,  my  eyes  resting  by  chance  on  one  of  my  photo- 
graphs of  long-ago  places  or  people,  a  crowd  of  sad,  gentle  thoughts 
has  rushed  into  my  heart,  and  driven  the  devil  out,  as  clean  as  ever 
so  much  holy  water  and  priestly  exorcisms  could  have  done!  I 
have  a  photograph  of  Haddington  church  tower,  and  my  father's 
tombstone  in  it — of  every  place  I  ever  lived  at  as  a  home — photo- 
graphs of  old  lovers!  old  friends,  old  servants,  old  dogs!  In  a  day 
or  two,  you,  dear,  will  be  framed  and  hung  up  among  the  '  friends.' 
And  that  bright,  kind,  indomitable  face  of  yours  will  not  be  the 
least  efficacious  face  there  for  exorcising  my  devil,  when  I  have 
him!  Thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  keeping  your  word!  Of 
course  you  would — that  is  just  the  beauty  of  you,  that  you  never 
deceive  nor  disappoint. 

Oh  my  dear!  my  dear!  bow  awfully  tired  I  was  with  the  journey 
home,  and  yet  I  had  taken  two  days  to  it,  sleeping — that  is, 
attempting  to  sleep — at  York.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  Scotland  is 
80  far  off!  all  the  good  one  has  gained  there  gets  shaken  off  one  in 
the  terrific  journey  home  again,  and  then  the  different  atmosphere 
is  so  trying  to  one  fresh  from  the  pure  air  of  Fife — so  exhausting 
and  depressing.  If  it  hadn't  been  that  I  had  a  deal  of  house- 
maiding  to  execute  during  the  week  I  was  here  before  Mr.  C. 
returned,  I  must  have  given  occasion  for  newspaper  paragraphs 
under  the  head  of  'Melancholy  suicide.'  But  dusting  books, 
making  chair-covers,  and  'all  that  sort  of  thing,'  leads  one  on 
insensibly  to  live — till  the  crisis  gets  safely  passed. 

My  dear!  I  haven't  time  nor  inclination  for  much  letter-writing 
— nor  have  you,  I  should  suppose,  but  do  let  us  exchange  letters 
now  and  then.  A  friendship  wliich  has  lived  on  air  for  so  many 
years  together  is  worth  the  trouble  of  giving  it  a  little  human  sus- 
tenance. 

Give  my  kind  regards  to  your  husband — I  like  him. — And  believe 
me, 

Your  ever  affectionate, 

Jane  Welsh  Carltle. 


118  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


LETTER  214 

In  October,  after  getting  home,  there  was  a  determined  onslaught 
made  on  'Frederick,'  an  attempt  (still  in  the  way  of  youth — 16 
rather  than  60 !)  to  vanquish  by  sheer  force  the  immense  masses  of 
incondite  or  semi-condite  rubbish  which  had  accumulated  on  '  Fred- 
erick,' that  is,  to  let  the  printer  straightway  drive  me  through  it! — 
a  most  fond  and  foolish  notion,  which  indeed  I  myself  partly  knew, 
durst  I  have  confessed  it,  to  be  foolish  and  even  impossible!  But 
this  was  the  case  all  along;  I  never  once  said  to  myself,  '  All  those 
chaotic  mountains,  wide  as  the  world,  high  as  the  stars,  dismal  as 
Lethe,  Styx,  and  Phlegethon,  did  mortal  ever  see  the  like  of  it  for 
size  and  for  quality  in  the  rubbish  way?  All  this  thou  wilt  have  to 
take  into  thee,  to  roast  and  smelt  in  the  furnace  of  thy  own  poor 
soul  till  thou  faifly  do  smelt  the  grains  of  gold  out  of  it!'  No, 
though  dimly  knowing  all  this,  I  durst  not  openly  know  it  (indeed, 
how  could  I  otherwise  ever  have  undertaken  such  a  subject?);  and 
I  had  got  far  on  with  the  unutterable  enterprise,  before  I  did  clearly 
admit  that  such  was  verily  proving,  and  would,  on  to  the  finis, 
prove  to  have  been  the  terrible  part  of  this  affair,  affair  which  t 
must  now  conquer  tale  quale,  or  else  perish!  This  first  attempt  of 
October-February,  1859-1860  (after  dreadful  tugging  at  the  straps), 
was  given  up  by  her  serious  advices,  which  I  could  not  but  admit 
to  be  true  as  well  as  painful  and  humiliating!  November  1860  had 
arrived  before  there  was  any  further  printing :  nothing  thenceforth 
but  silent  pulling  at  a  dead  lift,  which  lasted  four  or  five  years 
more. 

My  darling  must  have  suffered  much  in  all  this;  how  much!  I 
sometimes  thought  how  cruel  it  was  on  her,  to  whom  '  Frederick ' 
was  literally  nothing  except  through  me,  so  cruel,  alas,  alas,  and 
yet  inevitable!  Never  once  in  her  deepest  misery  did  she  hint,  by 
word  or  sign,  what  she  too  was  suffering  under  that  score;  me  only 
did  she  ever  seem  to  pity  in  it,  the  heroic,  the  thrice  noble,  and 
Avholly  loving  soul ! 

She  seemed  generally  a  little  stronger  this  year,  and  only  a  little; 
her  strength,  though  blind/ never  saw  it,  and  kept  lioping,  hoping, 
was  never  to  come  back,  but  the  reverse,  the  reverse  more  and 
more!  Except  a  week  or  two  at  the  Grange  (January  1860),  which 
did  not  hurt  either  of  us,  I  think  we  had  intended  to  make  no  vis- 
its this  year,  or  as  good  as  none.  We  did,  however,  and  for  good 
reasons,  make  two — hers,  a  most  unlucky  or  provoking  one,  pro- 
vokingly  curtailed  and  frustrated,  as  will  be  seen.  This  was  in 
August,  to  Alderley,  and  she  could  have  gone  further  but  for  blind 
ill  luck.  Beginning  of  July  she  had  tried  a  week  or  thereby  of 
lodging  at  Brighton,  and  invited  me,  who  tried  for  three  days,  but 
could  get  no  sleep  for  noises,  and  had  to  hurry  home  by  myself; 
where  also  I  could  not  sleep  nor  staj^  to  any  purpose,  and  was 
chiefly  by  brother  John,  who  accompanied,  led  by  sea  to  Thurso, 
for  a  '  long  sail '  first  of  all. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  119 


To  Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill. 

5  Chejme  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  Jan.  38, 1860. 

Dearest  Mary, — A  letter  from  me  would  have  crossed  yours  (with 
the  book)  on  the  road,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  jacket!  Things  are 
so  oddly  hooked  together  in  this  world.  The  connection  in  this 
case  is  simple  enough.  I  needed  a  little  jacket  for  home  wear,  and, 
possessing  a  superfluous  black  silk  scarf,  I  resolved,  in  a  moment 
of  economical  enthusiasm,  to  make  with  my  own  hands  a  jacket  out 
of  it.  For,  in  spite  of  the  '  thirty  thousand  distressed  needlewomen ' 
one  hears  so  much  of,  the  fact  remains  that  nobody  can  get  a  de- 
cent article  of  dress  made  here,  unless  at  enormous  cost.  And  be- 
sides, the  dressmakers  who  can  fit  one  won't  condescend  to  make 
anything  but  with  their  own  materials.  So  I  fell  to  cutting  out 
that  jacket  last  Mondaj^  and  only  finished  it  to-day  (Friday) !  and 
was  so  much  excited  over  the  unusual  nature  of  the  enterprise  (for 
I  detest  sewing,  and  don't  sew  for  weeks  together)  that  I  could  not 
leave  oflf,  for  anything  that  could  be  postponed,  till  the  jacket  was 
out  of  hands.  But  Lord  preserve  me,  what  a  bother;  better  to  have 
bought  one  ready-made  at  the  dearest  rate.  I  won't  take  a  needle 
in  my  hands,  except  to  sew  on  Mr.  C.'s  buttons,  for  the  next  six 
months.  By  the  way,  would  you  like  the  shape  of  my  jacket,  which 
is  of  the  newest?  I  have  it  on  paper,  and  could  send  it  to  you  quite 
handy. 

Oh  my  dear,  I  am  very  much  afraid,  the  reading  of  that  book 
■will  be  an  even  more  uncongenial  job  of  work  for  me  than  the 
jacket,  and  won't  have  as  much  to  show  for  itself  when  done.  If 
there  be  one  thing  I  dislike  more  than  theology  it  is  geology.  And 
here  we  have  both,  beaten  up  in  the  same  mortar,  and  incapable,  by 
any  amount  of  beating,  to  coalesce.  What  could  induce  any  live 
woman  to  fall  awriting  that  sort  of  book?  And  a  decidedly  clever 
woman — I  can  see  that  much  from  the  little  I  have  already  read  of 
it  here  and  there.  She  expresses  her  meaning  verj'-  clearly  and  ele- 
gantly too.  If  it  were  only  on  any  subject  I  could  get  up  an  inter- 
est in,  I  should  read  her  writing  with  pleasure.  But  even  when 
Darwin,  in  a  book  that  all  the  scientific  world  is  in  ecstasy  over, 
proved  the  other  day  that  we  are  all  come  from  eliell-fish,  it  didn't 
move  me  to  the  slightest  curiosity  whether  we  are  or  not.  I  did 
not  feel  that  the  slightest  light  would  be  thrown  on  my  practical 
life  for  me,  by  having  it  ever  so  logically  made  out  that  my  first 
ancestor,  millions  of  millions  of  ages  back,  had  been,  or  even  had 


120  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

not  been,  an  oyster.  It  remained  a  plain  fact  that  I  was  no  oyster, 
nor  had  any  grandfather  an  oyster  within  my  knowledge ;  and  for 
the  rest,  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained,  for  this  world,  or  the  next, 
by  going  into  the  oyster-question,  till  all  more  pressing  questions 
were  exhausted!  So — if  I  can't  read  Darwin,  it  maybe  feared  I 
shall  break  down  in  Mrs.  Duncan.  Thanks  to  you,  however,  for 
the  book,  which  will  be  welcome  to  several  of  my  acquaintances. 
There  is  quite  a  mania  for  geology  at  present,  in  the  female  mind. 
My  next-door  neighbour  would  prefer  a  book  like  Mrs.  Duncan's  to 
Homer's  '  Iliad  '  or  Milton's  '  Paradise  Lost.'  '  There  is  no  account 
ing  for  tastes.' 

I  have  done  my  visit  to  the  Grange,'  and  got  no  hurt  by  it;  and 
it  was  quite  pleasant  while  it  lasted.  The  weather  was  mild,  and 
besides,  the  house  is  so  completely  warmed,  with  warm  water-pipes, 
that  it  is  like  summer  there  in  the  coldest  weather.  The  house  was 
choke-full  of  visitors — four-and-twenty  of  us,  most  of  the  time. 
And  the  toilettes!  Nothing  could  exceed  their  magnificence;  for 
there  were  four  young  new-married  ladies,  among  the  rest,  all  vic- 
ing with  each  other  who  to  be  finest.  The  blaze  of  diamonds  every 
day  at  dinner,  quite  took  the  shine  out  of  the  chandeliers.  As  for 
myself,  I  got  through  the  dressing-part  of  the  business  by  a  sort  of 
continuous  miracle,  and,  after  the  first  day,  had  no  bother  with  my- 
self of  any  sort.  The  new  Lady  *  was  kindness'  self  and  gave  gen- 
eral satisfaction.  Affectionately  yours, 

jAiJE  Carlyle, 

LETTER  215. 
To  Miss  Barnes,  King's  Road,  Chelsea. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Saturday,  Jan.  14, 1860. 
My  dear  Miss  Barnes, — I  send  you  a  pheasant,  which  is  a  trophy 
as  well  as  a  dead  bird  I  For  I  brought  it  home  with  me  last  night 
from  one  of  the  most  stupendous  massacres  of  feathei^ed  innocents 
that  ever  took  place  '  here  down  '  (as  Mazzini  expresses  himself) — 
from  seven  hundred  to  a  thousand  pheasants  shot  in  one  day! 
The  firing  made  me  perfectly  sick.  Think  of  the  bodily  and  men- 
tal state  of  the  surviving  birds  when  the  day's  sport  was  ended! 
Decidedly,  men  can  be  very  great  brutes  when  they  like! 

'  Finished  January  13. 

'  Lord  Ashburton  married  secondly,  November  17,  1858,  Louisa  Caroline, 
youngest  daughter  of  the  Right  Hon.  James  Stewart  Mackenzie. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  121 

•  We  have  been  away  for  ten  days  at  the  Grange  (Lord  Ashbur- 
tou's  place  in  Hampshire),  where  I  always  thrive  better  than  any- 
where else ;  and  where,  as  you  see,  there  are  many  pheasants. 

I  went  to  take  leave  of  you  before  we  went;  but  saw  all  the  blinds 
down,  and  grew  sick  with  fright!  I  went  into  Mr.  Giguer's  shop 
and  inquired  was  anything  the  matter;  and  he  told  me  of  your  new 
loss.  At  least,  it  was  an  immense  relief  to  me  to  hear  that  your 
father  and  yourself  were  not  ill  or  worse.  After  that  I  thought  a 
note  about  ray  insignificant  movements  would  only  bother  your 
father;  so  I  left  him  to  learn  my  whereabouts  from  the  'Morning 
Post,'  certain  he  would  be  too  much  preoccupied  for  looking  after 
me  at  all.  Do  come  soon,  if  I  don't  go  to  you.  Do  you  care  to 
have  this  card?  It  will  do  for  an  autograph  if  you  don't  want  to 
use  it. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  216. 

To  Mr.  Barnes,  King's  Road,  Chelsea. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Thursday  night,  Feb.  1  [Nero  died]. 

My  dear  good  Mr.  Barnes, — I  cannot  put  into  words  how  much 
I  feel  your  kindness.  It  was  such  a  kind  thing  for  you  to  do!  and 
so  kindly  done!  My  gratitude  to  you  will  be  as  long  as  my  life, 
for  shall  I  not,  as  long  as  I  live,  remember  that  poor  little  dog? 
Oh  don't  think  me  absurd,  you,  for  caring  so  much  about  a  dog? 
Nobody  but  myself  can  have  any  idea  what  that  little  creature  has 
been  in  my  life.  My  inseparable  companion  during  eleven  years, 
ever  doing  his  little  best  to  keep  me  from  feeling  sad  and  lonelj'. 
Docile,  affectionate,  loyal  up  to  his  last  hour.  When  weak  and 
full  of  pain,  he  offered  himself  to  go  out  with  me,  seeing  my  bon- 
net on;  and  came  panting  to  welcome  me  on  my  return,  and  the 
reward  I  gave  him — the  only  reward  I  could  or  ought  to  give  him, 
to  such  a  pass  had  things  come — was,  ten  minutes  after,  to  give  him 
up  to  be  poisoned. 

I  thought  it  not  unlikely  you  would  call  to-day;  because  your 
coming  to-day  would  be  of  a  piece  with  the  rest  of  your  goodness 
to  me.  Nevertheless,  I  went  out  for  a  long  drive;  I  could  not 
bear  myself  in  the  house  where  everything  I  looked  at  reminded 
me  of  yesterday.  And  I  wouldn't  be  at  liome  for  visitors  to  criti- 
cise my  swollen  eyes,  and  smile  at  grief  '  about  a  dog,' and  besides, 
suppose  you  came,  I  wished  to  not   treat  you  to  more  tears;  of 

n.-6 


122  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

which  you  had  had  too  much;  and  to-day  I  couldn't  for  my  life 
have  seen  you  without  crying  dreadfully. 

Tell  your  little  jewel  of  a  daughter  I  have  not  forgotten  her 
wish,  for  which  I  thank  her.  I  wish  all  her  wishes  were  as  easy  to 
fulfil. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Welsh  CAELYiiB. 

LETTER  217. 

To  John  Forster,  Esq.,  Montagu  Square. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Thursday,  Jan.  1860  ?  or  March  ? 

All  right,  dear  Mr.  Forster— nothing  but  '  yeses '  out  of  that 
man's  mouth,  when  your  proposal  was  stated  to  him.  Willing, 
pleased  yeses.  I  am  afraid  something  must  be  going  to  happen  to 
him.  '  Yes,'  he  would  go  on  Sunday;  '  yes,'  he  would  be  there  a 
quarter  before  six;  yes,  he  would  walk  there,  and  let  you  send  him 
home.  Exactly  as  you  predicted,  he  did  not  come  in  till  half-past 
six  by  the  clock.  It  is  a  pity  for  poor  me;  I  daren't  do  anything 
pleasant  ever.  Though,  like  the  pigs,  I  get  used  to  it,  and  am 
thankful  if  I  can  but  keep  on  foot  in-doors. 

I  am  bent  on  seeing  her  and  Katie,  however,  before  we  go  to  the 
Grange. 

Yours  affectionately, 


Jane  Carltle. 
Yes,  Saturday ;— for  the  brougham  to  fetch  me,  no,  with  thanks. 

"  1  •    O. 


[In  T.  C.'shand:—] 

Yes,  Saturday ; — for  1 
-T.  C. 
(Written  then!— T.  C.) 


LETTER  218. 

Autumn  1860,  I  made  a  visit  of  four  or  five  weeks  to  Sir  George 
Sinclair  at  Thurso.  Early  in  the  summer  of  that  year,  I  was  vis- 
ited by  sleeplessness;  and  first  began  to  have  an  apprehension  that 
I  should  never  get  my  sad  book  on  Friedrich  finished,  that  it  would 
finish  me  instead.  I  still  remember  well  enough  the  dark,  cold, 
vague,  yet  authentic-looking  feeling  of  terror  that  shot  athwart  me 
as  I  sat  smoking  '  up  the  chimney,'  huddled  in  rugs,  dressing-gown 
and  cape,  with  candle  on  the  hob,  my  one  remedy  in  sleepless  cases ; 
the  first  real  assault  of  fear,  pointing,  as  it  were,  to  undeniable 
fact;  and  how  it  saddened  me  the  whole  of  next  day.  The  second 
day,  I  compared  it  to  Lutljer's  tomptingsbv  the  devil;  and  thought 
to  myself  in  Luther's  dialect,  '  Well,  well,  Herr  Teufel,  we  will  just 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  123 

go  on  as  long  as  we  are  alive;  and  keep  working,  all  the  same,  till 
thou  do  get  us  killed ! '  This  put  away  the  terror,  but  would  by  no 
means  bring  the  sleep  back.  I  recollect  lying  whole  nights  awake, 
still  as  a  stone;  getting  up  at  six,  and  riding  to  Clapham  Common, 
to  Hammersmith  region,  by  way  of  surrogate  fur  sleep.  My  head 
had  an  unpleasant  cloudy  feeling;  I  was  certainly  far  from  well, 
far  below  my  average  of  illness  even.  Brother  John,  who  lived  in 
his  Brompton  lodgings  then,  recommended  strongly  a  sea-voyage; 
voyage  to  Thurso,  for  example,  whither  the  hospitable  Sir  George 
Sinclair  had  been  again,  perhaps  for  the  third  or  fourth  time, 
eagerly  inviting  me.  Nothing  else  being  so  feasible,  and  something 
being  clearly  indispensable,  we  both  set  off,  John  volunteering  to 
escort  me  to  Wick ;  and  generously  and  effectively  performing  that 
fraternal  service.  The  very  first  night,  in  spite  of  the  tumults  of 
the  crowded  Aberdeen  steamer,  and  such  a  huddle  of  a  sleeping- 
place  as  is  only  seen  at  sea,  I  slept  deep  for  six  or  seven  hours;  and 
had  not  again,  during  this  visit,  nor  for  years,  any  real  misery 
about  sleep. 

On  the  part  of  my  generous  host  and  household,  nothing  was  left 
wanting;  I  was  allowed  to  work  daily  some  hours,  invisible  till 
three  p.m.  I  bathed  daily  in  the  Pentland  Firth  in  sight  of  the 
'Old  Man,'  roamed  about,  saw  'John  o'  Groat's  House'  (evidently 
an  old  lime-kiln!),  &c.  &c. ,  a  country  ancient,  wild,  and  lonely,  more 
than  enough  impressive  to  me.  I  was  very  sad,  '  soul  exceeding 
solitary;'  nothing  could  help  that.  Sir  George  was  abundantly 
conversible,  anecdotic,  far-read,  far  experienced,  indeed  a  quite 
learned  man  (would  read  me  lyrics,  &c.,  straight  from  the  Greek 
any  evening,  nothing  pleased  him  better),  and  full  of  piety,  verac- 
ity, and  good-nature,  but  it  availed  little;  I  was  sad  and  weary,  all 
things  bored  me!  Here  at  Chelsea,  with  ni}^  clever  Jeannie  for 
hostess,  and  some  clever  Mrs.  Twislleton  for  fellow-guest,  Sir 
George  was  reported  to  be  charming  and  amusing  at  their  little  din- 
ner, while  I  sat  aloft  and  wrote.  But  not  here  could  he  amuse ;  not 
here,  tliough  Ins  constant  perfect  goodness,  and  the  pleasure  he  al- 
ways expressed  over  me,  were  really  welcome,  wholesome,  and  re- 
ceived with  gratitude.  I  had  many  invitations  from  him  afterwards, 
saw  him  here  annually  once  or  twice;  but  never  went  to  Thurso 
again;  never  could  get  going,  had  I  even  wished  it  more. 

Few  letters  went  from  me  in  that  Tluu'so  solitude,  none  that  I 
could  help.  From  my  darling  herself  I  seemed  to  receive  still 
fewer  than  I  wrote;  the  tediously  slowpo.stR,  I  remember,  were  un- 
intelligible to  her,  provoking  to  iicr!  Here  is  one,  beyond  what  I 
could  count  on,  come  to  me  last  week  among  four  of  my  own, 
printed  on  'approval,'  in  some  memoirs  of  Sir  George,  which  the 
relations  have  set  a  certain  well  known  Mr.  James  Grant  upon 
writing!  To  Miss  Sinclair's  poor  request,  I  said  reluctantly  yes — 
couhl  not  say  no;  corrected  the  five  letters  (not  without  difficulty); 
returned  my  own  four  originals;  retained  (resolutely)  the  original 
of  this,  and  a  printed  copy  as  well  as  this.  (December  13,  1869.) 
— T.  C. 

The  letter  from  Mrs.  Cariyle  to  Sir  George  Sinclair  is  not  dated, 


124  LETTERS  AND   MEMORIALS  OP 

Ko  far  as  regards  the  year;  but  evidently  follows  close  on  the  fore- 
going. It  is  felicitously  playful  in  reference  to  her  own  husband. 
It  is  as  follows : — 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  August  1, 1860. 

My  dear  Sir, — Decidedly  you  are  more  thoughtful  for  me  than 
the  man  who  is  bound  by  vow  to  '  love  and  cherish  me;'  not  a  line 
liave  I  received  from  him  to  announce  his  safe  arrival  in  your  do- 
minions. The  more  shameful  on  his  part,  that,  as  it  appears  by 
your  note,  he  had  such  good  accounts  to  give  of  himself,  and  was 
perfectly  up  to  giving  them. 

Well !  now  that  you  have  relieved  me  from  all  anxiety  about  the 
effects  of  the  jouruej^  on  him,  lie  may  write  at  his  own  '  reasonably 
good  leisure.'  Only  I  told  him  I  should  not  write  till  I  had  heard  of 
his  arrival  from  himself;  and  lie  A/iotcs  whether  or  no  I  am  in  the 
habit  of  keeping  my  word — to  the  letter. 

A  thousand  thanks  for  the  primrose  roots;  which  I  shall  plant,  as 
soon  as  it  fairs!  To-day  we  have  again  a  deluge;  adding  a  deeper 
shade  of  horror  to  certain  household  operations  going  on  under  my 
inspection  (by  way  of  'improving  the  occasion'  of  his  absence!). 
One  bedroom  has  got  all  the  feathers  of  its  bed  and  pillows  airing 
themselves  out  on  the  floor!  creating  an  atmosphere  of  down  in  the 
house,  more  choking  than  even  '  cotton-fuzz.'  In  another,  uphol- 
sterers and  painters  are  plashing  away  for  their  life;  and  a  couple 
of  bricklayers  are  tearing  up  flags  in  the  kitchen  to  seek  '  the  solu- 
tion '  of  a  non-acting  drain!  All  this  on  the  one  hand;  and  on  the 
other,  visits  from  my  doctor,  resulting  in  ever  new  'composing 
draughts,'  and  strict  charges  to  '  keep  my  mind  perfectly  tranquil.' 
You  will  admit  that  one  could  easily  conceive  situations  more  ideal. 

Pray  do  keep  him  as  long  as  you  like!  To  hear  of  him  'in  high 
spirits '  and  '  looking  remarkably  well '  is  more  composing  for  me 
than  any  amount  of  '  composing  drauglits,'  or  of  insistence  on  the 
benefits  of  'keeping  myself  perfectly  tranquil.'  It  is  so  very  dif- 
ferent a  state  of  things  with  him  from  that  in  which  I  have  seen 
him  for  a  long  time  back! 

Oh !  I  must  not  forget  to  give  you  the  '  kind  remembrances  '  of  a 
verj^  charming  woman,  whom  any  man  may  be  pleased  to  be  re- 
membered by,  as  kindly  as  she  evidently  remembered  you!  I  speak 
of  Lady  William  Russell.  She  knew  you  in  Germany,  '  a  young 
student,'  she  told  me,  when  she  was  Bessie  Rawdon.  She  'had  a 
great  affection  for  you,  and  had  often  thought  of  you  since.'  You 
were  '  very  roraan tic  iu  those  days;  oh,  very  romantic  and  sentimeu- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  125 

tal,'  she  could  assure  me!    Pray  send  rae  back  a  pretty  message  for 
her;  she  will  like  so  much  to  kuow  that  she  has  not  remembered 
you  '  with  the  reciprocity  all  on  one  side.' 
I  don't  even  send  my  regards  to  Mr.  C. ,  but — 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 


LETTER  219. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Thurso  Castle. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  Aug.  10,  1860. 
Oh  my  dear!  If  '  all  about  feelings '  be  bad  in  a  letter,  all  about 
scenery  and  no  feelings  is  a  deal  worse !  Such  a  letter  as  that  I  re- 
ceived from  you,  yesterday,  after  much  half-anxious,  hall-angry 
waiting  for,  will  read  charmingly  in  your  biography!  and  may  be 
quoted  in  '  Murray's  Guide  Book;'  but  for  '  me,  as  one  solitary  in- 
dividual,' I  was  not  charmed  with  it  at  all!  Nevertheless,  I  should 
have  answered  it  by  return  of  post,  had  I  not  been  too  ill  for  writ- 
ing anything  yesterday,  except,  on  the  strength  of  phrenzy,  a  pas- 
sionate appeal  to  the  'retired  cheesemonger,'  about  his  dog,  which, 
I  am  happy  to  say,  like  everything  coming  straight  from  the  heart, 
went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  good  little  old  cheesemonger.  You 
will  infer,  from  my  going  ahead  against  '  noises'  on  my  own  ac- 
count, that  the  'extraordinary  disturbance  of  the  nervous  system,' 
which  Mr.  Barnes  found  me  suffering  under  when  he  came,  has  not 
yielded  yet  to  an  equally  extraordinary  amount  of  '  composing 
mixture! '  My  sleep  had  been  getting  '  small  by  degrees,  and  beau- 
tifully less,'  till  I  ended  in  lying  awake  the  whole  nights  through/ 
not  what  you  call  '  awake,'  that  is,  dozing;  but  broad  wide  awake, 
like  a  hawk  with  an  empty  stomach !  Still  tlie  mixture  was  to  be 
persevered  in,  nay,  increased,  and  I  was  assured  that  it  was  'doing 
me  a  little  good,'  so  little  I  myself  couldn't  perceive  it,  eventiirough 
the  powerful  microscope  of  my  faith  in  Mr.  Barnes!  and,  in  spite 
of  his  assurance  that  'home  was  the  best  place  for  me  at  present,'  I 
had  wild  impulses  to  '  take  the  road  '  (like  the  '  Doctor,'  and  with  the 
Doctor's  purposelessnessl).  The  night  before  last,  however  (Wed- 
nesday night),  I  fell  into  a  deep  natural  sleep,  which  lasted  two 
hours,  and  might  have  lasted  till  the  masons  began,  but  for  cheese- 
monger's dog,  which  was  out  that  night  (bad  luck  to  it!)  on  a  spree! 
and  startled  me  awake  at  three  of  the  morning  with  furious  con- 
tinuous barking — just  as  if  my  head  was  being  laid  open  with  re- 


126  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

peated  strokes  of  a  hatchet!  Of  course  I  '  slept  no  more;'  and  yes. 
terday  was  too  ill  for  anything  except,  as  I  have  said,  writing  a  wild 
appeal  to  the  cheesemonger.  I  will  inclose  his  comforting  answer 
which  he  handed  in  himself  an  hour  after.  It  will  be  comfortiag 
to  you  also,  in  reference  to  your  own  future  nights. 

I  have  nothing  to  tell  that  you  will  take  any  interest  in,  ex- 
cept about  the  horse.  He  is  still  under  the  process  of  '  breaking,' ' 
poor  creature!  Is  '  so  nervous  and  resolute,'  so  '  dreadful  resolute,' 
that  the  breaker  '  can't  tell  how  long  it  will  take  to  get  the  better 
of  him! '  I  must  see  Silvester  to-day  before  waiting  to  Frederick 
Chapman.  I  saw  the  poor  horse  three  days  ago,  just  coming  in  from 
the  breaker's,  like  a  horse  just  returning  from  the  'Thirty  Years' 
War!'  Poor  beast!  I  could  have  cried  for  him — required  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf  in  his  old  age!     I  know  what  that  is! 

'The  nephew  of  Haggi  Babda,'  dropt  in  'quite  promiscuously' 
last  Sunday  evening,  when  old  Jane  was  out  at  church,  and  I  was 
alone,  except  for  Geraldine,  who  opened  the  door  to  him,  and  after- 
wards talked  social  metaphysics  with  him!  He  is  the  fattest  young 
large  man  I  ever  saw,  out  of  a  caravan!  but  in  other  respects  rather 
charming.  He  wished  me  to  impress  on  you  how  happy  he  would 
be  to  transact  any  commissions  for  you  at  Berlin,  '  for  which  his 
connection  with  the  embassy  might  give  him  facilities,  &c.,  &c.' 
He  seemed  heartily  in  earnest  about  this,  and  a  hearty  admirer  of 
your  'Frederick.'  He  is  the  best-bred,  pleasantest  man  I  have  seen 
'  for  seven  years,'  and  the  hour  and  half  he  stayed  would  have  been 
delightful,  if  I  hadn't  been  deadly  sick  all  the  while,  and  my  nerv- 
ous system  '  in  an  extraordinary  state  of  disturbance.' 

Tell  Sir  George  I  have  planted  the  cowslips,  '  with  my  own  hand,' 
and  have  not  needed  to  water  them,  '  the  heavenly  watering-pan ' 
(which  Mariotti  spoke  of)  having  spared  me  the  trouble.  I  gave 
them  the  place  of  highest  honour  (round  poor  little  Nero's  stone). 
I  have  had  fires  all  day  long  for  the  last  week— such  a  summer! 
Lady  Stanley  sent  me  her  portrait.  The  only  bit  of  real  pleasant- 
ness, however,  that  has  come  my  Avay  has  been,  last  Wednesday,  a 
visit  from  William  Dodds  and  his  wife.  They  told  me  such  things 
about  the  behaviour  of  the  London  Donaldsons,  when  they  went 
down  to  Mi.^s  Jess's  funeral! 

Your  situation  sounds  as  favourable  as  a  conditional  world  coiild 


1  To  run  in  harness;  but  he  wouldn't— couldn't— though  the  best-natured  of 
horses,  poor  Fritz  I 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  127 

have  afforded  you.    I  trust  in  Heaven  that  you  will  go  on  improv- 
ing in  it. 

You  remember,  no  pens  got  mended,  so  you  won't  wonder  at  this 
scrawling. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  Welsh  Cablyle. 


LETTER  220, 
T.  Carlyle,  Thurso  Castle. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  Aug.  17,  1860. 
Thanks  for  the  two  letters,  dear!  I  '  did  intend  '  to  have  answered 
them  together,  at  full  length,  by  to-day's  post,  but  have  been  hin- 
dered sadly,  and  ignominiously,  by — '  what  shall  I  say? ' — an  attack 
of  British  cholera!    Don't  be  alarmed;  it  is  over  now!  and  it  is  still 
but  two  o'clock,  and,  though  I  was  ill   all  night  as  well  as  all  the 
forenoon.  I  don't  feel  disabled  for  writing.     It  is  an  appointment 
with  Lady  Sandwich,  which  I  don't  like  to  break,  that  takes  away 
the  remaining  two  and  a  half  hours,  in  which  I  might  have  written 
a  sufficient  letter.     She  sent  the  coachman  last  night,  with  a  note 
to  say  she  had  returned  to  Grosvenor  Square,  on  account  of  a  slight 
attack  of  bronchitis,  and  would  I  tell  the  coachman  when  to  bring 
the  carriage  to  fetch  me ;  I  appointed  a  quarter  before  three  to-day, 
not  foreseeing  what  the  night  had  in  reserve  for  me!   Indeed,  I  had 
no  reason  to  expect  anything  of  the  sort,  having  been  sleeping  bet- 
ter, and  feeling  better  in  every  way  for  the  last  week.     I  rather 
'  happrehcnd  '  it  was  my  own  imprudence,  in  taking  a  glass  of  bit- 
ter ale  at  supper  that  caused  this  deadly  sickness,  and — other  things. 
Trust  me  for  doing  the  best  for  myself,  in  the  circumstances.   I  am 
the  last  person  to  let  myself  be  humbugged  by  a  doctor;  Mr.  Barnes 
was  perfectly  right  in  ordering  me,  at  the  time  you  left,  to  put  all 
ideas  of  travelling  out  of  my  head,  and  '  go  to  bed  for  two  hours 
every  forenoon  instead.'     And  the  mixture,  which  for  many  days 
failed  in  its  intended  effect,  on  account  (he  said)  of  the  excitement 
I  was  in,  got  to  do  me  palpable,  unmistakable  good  at  last,  and  is 
now  discontinued  by  his  own  order.     At  the  time  you  left  I  was 
hanging  on  the  verge  of  nervous  fever,  and  have  made  a  very  near 
miss  of  it!    He  does  not  disapprove  of  my  going  away  now,  pro- 
vided I  keep  short  of  fatigue  and  excitement,  and  I  am  taking  steps 
towards  forming  a  programme.     I  will  tell  you  in  a  day  or  two 
what  direction  I  have  decided  on.     I  should  like  very  well  to  spend 


128  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

a  day  or  so  at  the  Gill ;  but  a  stay  of  any  length  there  would  not 
suit  me  at  all.  Milk  is  no  object,  as  it  is  not  strong  enough  food 
for  my  present  weak  appetite;  and  solitude  is  positively  hurtful  to 
me.  Human  kindness  is  precious  everywhere,  and  nobody  appre- 
ciates it  more  than  I  do;  but  just  the  kinder  they  are,  the  more  I 
should  be  tempted  to  exert  myself  in  talking,  and  putting  my  con- 
tentment in  evidence.  In  short,  there  would  be  a  strain  upon  me, 
while  I  was  supposed  to  be  enjoying  the  height  of  freedom!  I  mean 
were  my  stay  prolonged  beyond  the  day  or  two  during  which  the  en- 
thusiasm of  meeting  after  so  long  absence,  and  having  things  to 
tell  one  another,  holds  out.  I  am  so  sorry  to  put  you  off  with  such 
a  scrubby  letter,  but  the  carriage  will  be  here  before  I  am  dressed; 
and  here  is  my  beef-tea — my  first  breakfast. 
Kind  love  to  Sir  George. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  w.  c. 

LETTER  331. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  Aug.  17, 1860. 

Dearest  Mary, — I  haven't  leisure  to  commence  this  letter  with«re- 
proaches;  for  the  reproaches  would  be  very  long,  and  my  time  for 
writing  is  very  short.  In  an  hour  hence  a  carriage  will  come  to 
take  me  to  a  sick  old  lady,  I  myself  being  quite  as  sick  and  nearly 
as  old,  and  there  are  directions  to  be  given  to  divers  workmen  be- 
fore I  start.  For  Mr.  Carlyle  is  absent  at  Thurso,  and  I  have  taken 
the  opportunity  of  turning  a  carpenter,  and  a  painter,  and  a  paper- 
hanger  into  his  private  apartment. 

Yes,  after  repeatedly  assuring  you  that  Mr.  Carlyle  would  not  go 
north  this  summer,  but  restrict  his  travels  to  some  sea-side  place 
near  hand,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  tell  you  that  he  has  gone 
'  north '  after  all,  and  further  north  than  he  ever  was  in  all  his  life 
before,  being  on  a  visit  to  Sir  George  Sinclair  at  Thurso  Castle — 
the  northermost  point  of  Scotland.  A  trial  of  Brighton  had  been 
made,  and  had  ended  abruptly  and  iguominiously  in  flight  back  to 
Chelsea,  to  get  out  of  the  sound  of  certain  cocks.  Of  all  places  in 
the  world,  Brighton  was  the  last  one  could  have  expected  to  be  in- 
fested with  poultry.  But  one  week  of  Brighton  had  only  increased 
Mr.  C.'s  desire  for  sea,  and  indeed  he  had  got  into  such  a  sleepless, 
excited  condition  through  prolonged  over-work,  that  there  could  be 
no  doubt  about  the  need  of  what  they  call  '  a  complete  change '  for 


\ 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  129 

him.  So  he  looked  about  for  a  sea-residence,  where  he  might  be 
safe  from  cocks  and  cockneys,  and  decided  for  Thurso  Castle, 
which  could  moreover  be  readied  by  sailing,  which  he  prefers  in- 
finitely to  railwaying,  and  whence  there  had  come  a  pressing  invi- 
tation for  us  both  to  spend  a  couple  of  months.  Accordingly,  he 
streamed  off  there  a  fortnight  ago,  I  remaining  behind  for  several 
reasons;  first,  that  sailing  is  as  much  as  my  life  is  worth,  and  seven 
hundred  miles  of  railway  would  have  been  just  about  as  fatal. 
Second,  if  I  was  going  to  undertake  along  journey,  I  might  take  it 
in  directions  that  would  better  repay  the  trouble  and  expense.  And 
third,  the  long  worry  and  anxiety  I  had  had  with  Mr.  C.'s  nervous- 
ness had  reduced  myself  to  the  brink  of  a  nervous  fever,  and  my 
doctor  was  peremptory  as  to  the  unfitness  of  my  either  going  with 
Mr.  C,  or  rejoining  him  at  Tliurso.  Indeed  I  was  not  to  leave  home 
at  all  in  the  state  I  was  in,  but  to  take  three  composing  draughts  a 
day!  and  go  to  bed  for  two  hours  every  forenoon.  A  fortnight  of 
this  and  perfect  quiet  in  the.  house  has  calmed  me  down  amazingly, 
only  I  feel  as  tired  as  if  I  were  just  returned  from  the  '  thirty 
years'  war.'  And  now  Mr.  Barnes  does  not  object  to  my  going 
away,  provided  I  don't  go  to  Mr.  C. !  and  don't  over-exert  myself. 
Mr.  C,  who  is  already  immensely  improved  by  his  residence  at 
Thurso  Castle,  is  all  for  everybody  '  going  into  the  country,'  and 
has  made  up  his  mind  that,  like  it  or  not,  I  must  go  '  instantly '  to 
— the  Gill  (Mary  Austin's),  which,  as  it  suits  his  milk-loving  habits, 
he  thinks  would  equally  suit  me.  And  I  myself  would  like  very 
well  to  turn  my  two  or  three  remaining  weeks  of  liberty  to  some 
more  agreeable  use  than  superintending  the  house-cleaning  here! 
But  decidedly  mooning  about,  all  by  myself,  at  the  Gill,  lapping 
milk,  which  doesn't  agree  with  me,  and  being  stared  at  by  the  Gill 
children  as  their  '  aunt! '  is  not  the  happy  change  for  which  I  would 
go  far,  much  as  I  like  Mary  Austin. 

Now,  I  want  to  know  how  you  are  situated,  whether  the  invita- 
tion held  out  to  me,  and  which  I,  '  ignorant  of  the  future,'  declined 
for  this  year,  be  still  open  to  me;  for  if  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  go 
on  to  you  for  a  week  or  so  from  the  Gill,  I  might  give  myself  the 
air  of  a  charmingly  obedient  wife,  and  agree  to  go  there,  without 
my  obedience  costing  me  any  personal  sacrifice.  I  could  break  the 
long  journey  by  staying  a  few  days  at  Alderley  Park  (Lord  Stan- 
ley's),  where  I  have  half  engaged  to  go  in  any  case.  But  I  don't 
know  if  you  are  settled  yet,  or  if  you  are  not  gone  somewhere  for 
change  of  air  yourself,  or  if  somebody  else  be  not  located,  for  the 

n.-6* 


/ 


130  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

present,  in  my  room,  and  unfortunately  I  am  tied  to  time.  I  must 
be  back  in  London — some  weeks  before  Mr.  C. ;  for  reasons  I  will 
explain  later,  for  they  require  time  to  explain  them. 

In  the  meanwhile  you  will,  in  any  case,  answer  me,  as  briefly  as 
you  like,  by  return  of  post?  for  I  shan't  answer  Mr.  C.  till  T  get 
your  letter.  And  I  do  beseech  you  to  be  perfectly  frank,  to  tell 
me  if  you  are  going  anywhere,  or  if  anybody  else  is  coming  to  you, 
or  if  my  room  is  not  ready  yet,  or,  worst  of  all,  if  you  are  poorly, 
and  can't  be  troubled. 

I  understand  that  state  so  thoroughly  well. 

Tour  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Cakltlb. 


LETTER  223. 
T.  Carlyle,  Thurso  Castle. 

Alderley  Park,  Congleton,  Cheshire:  Thursday,  Aug.  23,  1860. 

There!  What  do  you  think  of  this?  If  you  knew  all  you  would 
admit  that  I  have  as  much  '  courage '  as  your  horse,  which  '  goes 
whether  he  can  or  not.'  But  the  present  is  not  a  moment  for  en- 
tering into  details,  of  how  ill  I  was  after  ray  last  letter,  and  of  how 
my  illness  was  complicated  with  household  griefs,  and  of  how  it 
was  necessary  to  leave  for  here  at  hardly  a  day's  notice,  or  give  up 
altogether  the  idea  of  going  anywhere.  All  that  will  keep  till  I 
am  in  better  case  for  writing  a  long  letter,  or  even  till  we  meet  '  on 
our  return  from  the  thirty  years'  war.'  Enough  to  say,  for  the 
present,  that  I  am  here  on  a  most  kindly  pressing  invitation  from 
Lady  Stanley,  to  stay  '  a  week,'  and  '  be  nursed  '  (you  may  be  sure 
it  was  pressing  enough  when  /accepted  it),  and  that  my  intention 
is,  if  I  get  as  much  better  as  I  hope,  to  go  on  from  here  to  the  Gill, 
and  from  there,  after  a  day  or  two's  rest,  to  Holm  Hill  (Mrs.  Rus- 
sell's), where  I  can  remain  with  advantage  as  long  as  I  find  expedi- 
ent with  relation  to  the  time  of  your  return  home. 

Mrs.  Russell  had  been  urging  me  to  visit  them  for  the  last  three 
months  at  intervals.  And  I  am  always  much  made  of,  and  very 
comfortable  there.  And  to  have  a  doctor  for  one's  host  was  a  con- 
sideration of  some  weight  with  me,  under  the  circumstances,  in 
choosing  that  ultimate  destination.  I  couldn't  have  travelled  all 
the  way  to  Dumfriesshire  at  one  fell  rush ;  but  the  invitation  to 
Alderley  broke  the  journey  beautifully  for  me.  It  (the  coming  to 
Alderley)  had  been  spoken  of,  or  rather  written  of,  by  Lady  S.  be- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  131 

fore  I  last  wrote  to  you,  but  I  was  afraid  to  say  a  word  about  it  in 
case  you  had  played  me  the  same  trick  as  in  the  case  of  Louisa 
Baring.  No  time  had  been  specified  then.  So  that  when  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  on  Monday  (written  in  forgetfuluess  of  the  interven- 
ing Sunday),  urging  me  to  be  at  Chelford  station  on  Tuesday  by 
four  o'clock,  where  Lady  S.  would  send  the  carriage  for  me,  it 
quite  took  away  my  breath.  I  could  not  possibly  get  myself  and 
the  house  packed  by  Tuesday.  Besides,  Lady  Ashburton  had  of- 
fered to  come  to  tea  with  me  on  Tuesday,  and  been  accepted,  '  in 
my  choicest  mood;'  so  I  answered  that  I  would,  D.V.,  be  at  Chel- 
ford station  by  four  on  Wednesday. 

A  more  tired  human  being  than  myself,  when  I  got  into  the  train 
at  Euston  Square  yesterday,  you  haven't  seen  'this  seven  years.' 
Geraldine  and  Mr.  Larkin  escorted  me  there,  and  paid  me  the  last 
attentions.  I  was  hardly  out  of  sight  of  the  station  when  I  fell 
back  in  my  seat  and  went  to  sleep,  and  slept  off  and  on  (me,  in  a 
railway  carriage !)  all  the  way  to  Crewe,  where  I  was  roused  into 
the  usual  wide-awakeness  by  seeing  the  van  containing  my  port- 
manteau go  off  as  for  good.  It  came  back,  however,  after  much 
running  and  remonstrating;  and  I  was  put  down  at  Chelford  'all 
right'  in  a  pouring  rain,  which  indeed  had  poured  without  a  mo- 
ment's intermission  all  day.  The  carriage  was  waiting  with 
drenched  coachman  and  footman,  who  I  had  the  discomfort  of 
thinking  must  wish  me  at  Jericho,  at  the  least,  and  I  was  soon  in 
the  hall  at  Alderley,  into  which  Lady  S.,  with  the  girls  at  her  back, 
came  running  to  welcome  me  with  kisses  and  good  words,  a  much 
more  human  mode  of  receiving  visitors  than  I  had  been  used  to  in 
great  houses.  In  fact,  the  whole  thing  is  very  human,  and  very 
humane  as  well.  Lord  S.  is  still  in  London,  Postmaster-General 
you  will  have  heard— nobody  liere  but  Lady  S.  and  the  girls,  which 
suits  my  nervous  system,  and  also  my  wardrobe  (which  I  had  no 
time  or  care  to  get  up)  much  better  than  company  would  have 
done.  Indeed,  I  had  made  the  aloueness  and  dulncss,  which  Lady 
S.  had  complained  of,  my  conditions  in  accepting  her  invitation. 
Mr.  Barnes  had  been  saying  all  he  could  about  '  the  excited  state 
of  my  brain  '  (I  too  have  a  brain  it  seems?)  to  frighten  me  into 
'  taking  better  care  '  of  myself,  and  '  avoidiug  every  sort  of  worry, 
and  fuss,  and  fatigue,'  as  if  anybody  could  avoid  worry,  and  fuss, 
and  fatigue  in  this  world.  Worry,  and  fuss,  and  fatigue  u-uder  the 
name  of  'pleasure,'  of  'amusement,'  that  however  one  certainly 
may  avoid.  So  I  should  not  have  gone  wilfully  into  a  houseful  of 
visitors. 


133  LETTERS   AND   MEMORIALS  OP 

I  shall  write  to  Mary  to-day.  I  had  the  kindest  little  letter  from 
her. 

Love  to  Sir  George.  I  have  had  no  letter  from  you  since — I  can- 
not remember  when.  Tours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 

F.  Chapman  will  have  written  about  the  horse  he  undertook  to 
break.  Silvester  says  the  horse  is  not  broken,  has  a  nasty  trick 
that  would  break  any  brougham — turns  sharp  round,  and  stands 
stock  still,  in  spite  of  all  you  can  do,  holding  his  head  to  one  side 
as  if  he  were  listening.  Poor  dear  Fritz.  The  breaker,  who  I  sup- 
pose desires  to  be  rid  of  it,  says  to  Chapman  it  is  broken,  and  Fred- 
erick means  to  try  it  himself. 

LETTER  223. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

Alderley  Park,  Congleton:  Saturday,  Aug.  25,  1890. 

My  dearest  Mary, — I  could  sit  down  and  take  a  good  hearty  cry. 
I  am  not  to  get  to  you  after  all.  This  morning  is  come  a  letter 
from  Mr.  C,  forwarded  from  Chelsea,  giving  me  the  astounding 
news  that  there  is  every  likelihood  of  his  coming  home  by  next 
Wednesday's  steamer.  Always  the  way,  whenever  I  go  anywhere 
to  please  myself — plump  he  appears  at  Chelsea,  and,  just  now,  his 
appearance  there  in  my  absence  would  be  (as  Lord  Ashburton  would 
say)  '  the  devil ! ' 

I  cannot  enter  into  an  account  of  ray  household  affairs  just  now 
— being  long,  and  most  ridiculous.  I  was  keeping  it  as  an  amus- 
ing story  for  you  when  we  met.  I  will  write  the  story  from  Chel- 
sea at  my  first  leisure  (wlien  will  that  be?).  But  just  now  I  am 
too  vexed  for  making  a  good  story,  besides  being  too  busy,  having 
so  many  letters  demanding  to  be  written  about  this  provoking 
change  of  plan.  When  I  leave  here,  it  must  be  straight  for  Chel- 
sea, and  I  must  go  on  Tuesday  morning.  What  a  pity!  I  was  just 
beginning  to  recover  my  sleep  in  the  fresh  air  and  the  absence  of 
worries — have  had  actualh'  two  nights  of  good  sleep;  and  they  are 
so  kind  to  me,  and  they  to  whom  I  was  going  would  have  been  so 
kind  to  me!  But  when  one  has  married  a  man  of  genius,  one  must 
take  the  consequences.  Only  there  was  no  need  for  liim  to  have 
spoken  of  staying  at  Thurso  till  the  beginning  of  October,  and 
misled  me  so.  Your  loving  friend, 

J.  W.  C. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  133 

LETTER  224. 
T.  Carlyle,  Thurso  Castle. 

Alderley  Park:  Sunday,  Aug.  86, 1800. 
Oh,  dear  me!  this  length  of  days  needed  for  a  letter  written  to 
or  from  Thurso,  to  get  an  answer  in  the  course  of  post,  is  very 
trying  to  impatient  spirits!  Not  on  account  of  the  slowness  only, 
but  on  account  of  the  '  change  come  o'er  the  spirit  of  one's  dream  ' 
in  the  interval  between  the  post's  going  out  and  coming  in.  Not 
once,  since  you  went  to  that  accursedly  out-of-the-way  place,  has  a 
letter  from  you  found  me  in  the  same  mood  and  circumstances  to 
which  it  was  addressed,  as  being  the  mood  and  circumstances  in 
which  my  own  letter  had  left  me,  and  of  course  it  has  been  the 
same  with  my  letters  to  you.  For  example,  your  announcement 
that  you  might  be  home  immediately,  crossing  my  announcement 
that  I  was  on  the  road  to  Scotland.  Now  I  write  to  say  I  am 
turning  back,  and  shall  be  at  Chelsea,  D.V.,  on  Tuesday  afternoon, 
to  prepare  for  you,  in  case  you  do  come  soon,  which  I  shall  regret 
for  your  sake ;  a  few  more  weeks  of  sound  sleep  would  be  so  good 
for  you.  What  will  be  the  contents  of  the  letter  that  crosses  this? 
Something  quite  irrelevant  I  have  no  doubt.  Perhaps  assurances 
that  you  can  do  perfectly  well  at  Chelsea  without  me,  and  that  I 
am  to  stay  in  Scotland  as  long  as  I  like,  when  I  shall  be  reading 
the  letter  at  Cheyne  Row,  and  as  sure  as  ever  woman  was  of  any- 
thing that  you  could  not  have  done  at  Chelsea  without  me  for 
twelve  hours. 

The  week  before  my  departure,  which  should  have  been  devoted 
to  setting  my  house  in  order,  was  devoted  to  British  cholera,  which, 
coming  on  the  back  of  low  nervous  fever,  reduced  me  to  a  state  of 
exhaustion,  which  even  '  zeal  for  my  house '  couldn't  rouse  to  the 
requisite  activity.  Many  things  had  been  begun,  but  few  of  them 
finished — for  instance,  your  bed  had  been  all  taken  to  pieces  to  look 
for  bugs,  and  it  had  been  ascertained  that  not  one  bug  survived 
there,  and  the  bed  had  been  put  together,  but  the  curtains  were 
away  being  cleaned. 

Fancy  your  coming  home  to  a  curtainless  bed,  and  '  Old  Jane' ' 
would  have  made  no  shift!  for  •  Old  Jane,'  my  dear,  I  may  as  well 
tell  you  soon  as  syne,  is  a  complete  failure  and  humbug!  Although 
you  provokingly  enough  attributed  the  silence  I  systematically  ob- 

» I  have  quite  forgotteu. 


134  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

serve  on  the  shortcomings  of  servants  to  want  of  '  care  about  it,'  I 
still  think  that  until  I  am  arrived  at  parting  with  a  servant,  and 
have  to  show  reason  why,  the  more  I  hold  my  peace  about  them, 
and  make  the  best  of  them,  the  more  for  your  comfort  and  for  my 
own  credit.'  'Old  Jane  '  then  disappointed  me  from  the  first  day. 
Before  you  left  I  bad  satisfied  myself  that  she  was  a  perfectly  in- 
competent cook  and  servant,  and  soon  after  you  left  I  satisfied 
myself  that  she — told  lies !  and  had  no  more  sense  of  honour  in  lier 
work  than  Charlotte.  There  was  no  need  to  worry  you  Avith  the 
topic  of  her,  which  was  to  myself  perfectly  loathsome,  until  I  had 
to  account  for  replacing  her.  I  mention  her  now  to  reconcile  you 
to  the  idea  of  my  having  gone  back  home  to  wait  for  you.  You 
couldn't  have  done  without  me,  you  see.  I  have  engaged  a  woman 
of  thirty-four,  who  is  really  promising  (the  woman  Miss  Evans 
wanted  to  have),  and  a  remai'kably  nice-looking  girl  of  sixteen  to 
be  under  her.**  She  would  not  have  taken  a  place  of  '  all  work, 
and  indeed  it  is  very  difficult  to  find  even  a  respectable  servant  who 
will  take  it — naturally,  when  they  can  find  plenty  of  less  confused 
places.  She,  the  elder  woman,  comes  home  on  September  14,  and 
I  wished  the  girl  to  wait  till  then.  I  think  the  house  will  really  be 
comfortable  and  orderly  by-and-by — at  more  cost;  but  that,  you 
said  repeatedly,  you  didn't  mind.  At  all  rates,  I  have  taken 
immense  trouble  (two  journeys  to  Richmond  included),  to  find 
respectable  and  competent  servants.  If  I  have  failed,  it  will  just 
be  another  instance  of  my  ill-luck,  rather  than  my  want  of  zeal. 

Maud''  has  been  sitting  in  my  room  waiting  till  I  am  done.  Ex- 
cuse haste  and  abrupt  ending.  I  can't  write  on  this  principle,  and 
I  shan't  get  a  chance  again  before  post  time. 

Yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  225. 

Surely  this  is  one  of  the  saddest  of  letters — the  misery  of  it 
merely  slowness  of  posts,  and  on  both  sides  hardly  bearable  heavi- 
ness of  load.     Oh,  my  own  much  suffering  little  woman! — T.  C. 


1  Alasl  can  that  need  to  be  said?— insane  that  I  was! 

^  Yes,  I  recollect  these  two.  I  had  often  latterly  been  urg^ing  '  two  ser- 
vants,'  but  she  never  till  now  would  comply.  The  elder  of  these  'two'  did 
not  suit  either.  A  conceited  fool;  got  the  name  'Perfection,'  and  (to  the 
great  joy  of  the  younger,  who  continued  worthily)  had  to  go  in  a  few  months. 

•  Stanley. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  135 


T.  Carlyle,  Thurso  Castle. 


5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Sunday.  Sept.  2,  1860. 
This  is  all— '  what  shall  I  say?  strange,  upon  my  honour!'    On 
Friday  morning  comes  a  note  from  Sir  George  (that  had  gone  round 
by  Alderley)  to  the  effect  that  his  '  dear  friend's  pen  being  more 
devoted  to  the  service  of  unborn  generations  than  to  mine  '  (truly! 
and  if  the  '  unborn  generations'  will  do  the  answering,  I  shan't  ob- 
ject!), and  another  expedition  to  John  o'  Groats  being  on  foot,  he 
writes  to  tell  me  the  dear  friend  has  been  prevailed  upon,  &c.  &c. 
Well!  'I  am  most  particularly  glad  to  hear  it,'  like  Archivarius 
Lyndhorst.     The  more  of  Thurso  Castle,  the  better  for  his  sleep, 
and  his  head;  and,  as  concerns  myself,  the  more  time  for  putting 
things  straight  here,  the  better  for  my  sleep,  and  my  head!  (if  so 
insignificant  an  individual  can  be  said  to  have  a  head!)    But  cer- 
tainly on  the  following  morning  (Saturday),  there  would  be  a  few 
lines  from  the  dear  friend's  self,  snatched  from  his  service  to  '  un- 
born generations '  to  tell  me  '  with  his  own  hand'  of  his  change  of 
plan!    No!     On  Saturday  morning  tbe  postman  didn't  so  much  as 
call!  and  when  I  ran  out  at  the  house  door  to  see  if  he  could  really 
mean  it,  he  merely  shook  his  head  from  the  steps  of  No.  8.     Late 
at  night,  however,  I  hear  of  a  letter  from  you,  received  that  morn- 
ing by  Neuberg.     There  had  been  time  found  or  made  to  write  to 
him.     And  he  'thought  it  his  duty  to,'  not  forward  your  letter  to 
me,  but  interlard  his  own  note  with  single  words  or  whole  lines  of 
yours  'in  ticks'' — 'means  to  move  gradually  sonthviaxdi  again, 
wishes  you  could  be  persuaded  to  start  again,  if  able  at  all,  and  to 
rectify  her  huge  error! '  &c.     Who  was  to  '  persuade  '  me  to  start 
again?    Neuberg  himself,  perhaps?    Not  you  it  would  seem,  who 
send  not  a  single  line  to,  as  it  were,  welcome  me  home,   though 
come  home  entirely  for  your  sake!    No  matter!  there  is  the  less  to 
be  grateful  for! 

Meanwhile  I  am  glad  to  know,  even  indirectly,  that  you  are 
positively  coming  south  by  land,  and  'gradually.'  The  two  notes 
■written  after  hearing  I  was  at  Alderley,  and  bound  for  Dumfries- 
shire, which  were  received  together  (on  account  of  the  misdirec- 
tion), within  an  hour  of  the  time  the  carriage  was  ordered  to 
take  me  to  the  station,  threw  no  certain  light  for  me  on  your 
plans.     When  you  first  fixed  to  go  to  Tliurso,  your  grand  induce- 

"  Her  own  Scotch  name  for  double  commas. 


136  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

raent  had  seemed  to  be  that  you  'could  sail  there,  and  back, 
and  avoid  all  that  horror  of  railways.'      You  had  never  once 
in  my  hearing  spoken  of  taking   Dumfriesshire   on  your  road; 
on  the  contrary,  when  I  spoke  to  you  of  Loch  Luichart,  you  said : 
'  Oh,  that  was  a  great  way  oflE!  and  you  shouldn't  be  going  back  by 
land  at  all! '     Then  the  letter,  forwarded  to  Alderley  from  Chelsea, 
written  in  the  belief  I  was  still  at  home,  made  no  allusion  whatever 
to  any  intention  of  taking  Dumfriesshire  on  your  road  home.    You 
could  not  remain  there  longer,  without  work,  and,  to  get  on  with 
your  work,  you  must  be  '  beside  your  reservoir  of  books  at  Chel- 
sea.'   Read  that  letter  yourself — Mary  Austin  has  got  it  (I  sent  it  to 
her  as  my  valid  excuse  for  breaking  my  engagement  to  come,  and 
as  a  valid  excuse  she  accepted  it) — and  say  if  I  was  committing 
any  'huge  error,'  or  error  at  all,  in  supposing  it  in  the  highest  de- 
gree probable  that  you  would  sail  straight  from  Thurso  to  London? 
And  granting  that  high  probability,  there  was  but  one  course  for 
me,  under  the  circumstances  (the  curtains;  the  keys,  which  you 
could  never  have  known   one  from  another!  the   imbecile  'Old 
Jane ; '  the  new  servant  to  come,  &c.  &c.) — but  one  course :  to  go 
south  again  instead  of  north,  on  the  day  when  my  Alderley  visit 
"was  to  terminate:  unless,  after  my  resolution  was  taken,  and  every- 
body warned  not  to  expect  me  in  Dumfriesshire,  and  the  new 
vromau  who  had  been  put  off  warned  that  she  must  now  imme- 
diately render  herself  at  Cheyne  Row — unless,  after  all  that,  I  was 
to  unsettle  everything  over  again  at  the  very  last  hour,  when  there 
was  no  longer  time  to  warn  anybody.     On  the  receipt  of  the  two 
little  letters,  which  came  together,  taking  them  as  an  exposition  of 
your  voluntary  plans,  not  of  plans  which  you  had  been  forced  to 
adopt  voluntarily  by  the  knowledge  of  mine — by  the  dread  of  going 
home  to  a  comfortless  house,  and,  simultaneously  with  that,  a  kind 
desire  not  to  interfere  with  any  arrangements  of  mine  by  which  my 
health  might  be  benefited.     No!  I  could  not  be  quite  certain  that, 
were  I  at  Chelsea  instead  of  half-way  to  Scotland,  you  might  not 
still  wish  to  avoid  the  'horror  of  railways,'  and  to  get  back  to  your 
'reservoir  of  books.'     At  all  events,  you  should  have  your  free 
choice,  and  now  you  have  had  it,  and  I  learn,  through  Mr.  Neuherg, 
that  it  is  to  be  '  in  no  hurry.'    I  am  very  glad  of  that,  as  I  shall  be 
in  better  trim  for  ynu  here  than  had  you  come  st  raight. 

As  to  my  '  starting  again  '  (on  any  long  expedition  at  least),  you 
couldn't  believe  Mr.  Neuberg  or  anyone  else  could  persuade  me  to 
do  it!    I  am  not  'able  at  all,'  which  does  not  mean,  however,  that 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  137 

I  am  ill.  My  three  days  at  Alderley,  before  the  letter  came,  did 
me  all  the  good  which  I  was  likely  to  get  from  change  of  scene  ;— 
after  the  letter  came,  my  sleep  was  no  better  than  at  Chelsea. 
When  I  am  worried  about  anything,  no  air  nor  surroundings  can 
put  me  to  sleep.  At  present  your  curtains  are  come  home  and  put 
up.  The  bricklayers  have  mended  the  broken  tiles  on  your  dress- 
ing closet.  That  dreadful  old  woman  is  to  be  got  handsomely  rid 
of  next  Wednesday ;  and  I  feel  rather  quiet,  and  am  getting  to 
sleep  better,  and  mean  to  lead  a  pleasant  life  in  my  solitude — taking 
these  '  little  excursions  so  long  talked  of. ' 

Lady  Stanley  was  to  write  to  you,  the  day  I  left,  to  tell  you  I  was 
despatched  safely  south.  My  own  letter,  to  say  I  was  going  home 
on  Tuesday,  would  reach  you  last  Monday  I  suppose.  You  will 
write  when  the  '  unborn  generations '  can  spare  you  for  half  an 
hour. 

The  only  news  J  have  to  tell  is,  that  the  poor  '  little  darling! ' '  has 
lost  the  use  of  an  arm  and  hand  by  paralysis.  He  came  himself  to 
tell  me,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  and  repeatedly  broke  down  into 
tears,  and  made  me  cry  too.  'Oh!'  he  said,  '  how  I  do  miss  my 
poor  dear!' — I  thought  he  was  going  1o  say  wife — she  died  two 
years  since;  but,  no,  it  was  'arm! '  '  (.)li,  how  I  miss  my  poor  dear 
arm!'  He  didn't  need  money,  wouldn't  even  be  paid  what  was 
owing  him.     It  was  the  helplessness  that  was  breaking  his  heart. 

All  good  be  with  you. 

Yours  ever, 

Jane  Welsh  Carltle. 

Don't  expect  another  letter  for  a  long  time,  even  should  I  know 
the  address;  writing  is  very  bad  for  me,  and  I  hate  it  at  present. 

LETTER  226. 
T.  CarlyU,  Thurso  Castle. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  Sept.  3, 1860. 
Two  letters  from  you  this  morning — one  redirected  from  Aider- 
ley.  But  I  must  let  the  long  letter  I  wrote  yesterday  go,  as  it  is 
all  the  same!  It  is  too  much  writing  to  throw  away,  after  having 
given  myself  a  lieadache  over  it.  Besides,  after  having  read  your 
two  letters  of  this  morning,  I  feel  none  the  less  called  upon  to  de- 
fend myself  against  the  charge  of  '  huge  error,'  '  rashness,'  '  precip- 

'  Iler  name  for  a  neat  and  good  old  gardener  that  used  to  work  for  us. 


138  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

itancy,'  'folly,'  and  so  on!  I  maintain  that,  however  unfortunate 
my  course  may  have  been,  I  could  not,  under  the  circumstances, 
have  rightly  taken  any  other!  So  the  letter  of  yesterday  had  best 
go!  Nor  do  I  deign  to  accept  the  very  beggarly  apology  you  make 
for  my  'infatuated  conduct,'  that  I  had  myself  lost  heart  for  the 
Dumfriesshire  visits,  and  was  glad  of  any  excuse  to  be  off  from 
them;  that  tortuous  style  of  thing  is  not  at  all  in  my  line.  Had  I 
lost  heart  I  would  have  said  so.  On  the  contrary,  feeling  myself 
at  Alderley,  half-way — all  the  hateful  preparatory  lockings  up  and 
packings  well  over — nothing  to  do  but  go  north  at  Crewe  instead  of 
south,  and  Mary  Austin  and  Mrs.  Russell  promising  me  the  very 
warmest  welcome,  far  from  losing  heart,  I  had  for  the  first  time 
gained  heart  for  the  further  enterprise;  the  'interest'  had  'not 
fallen  but  risen,'  I  assure  you,  and  I  turned  south  with  real  morti- 
fication! There!  you  have  provoked  that  out  of  me,  which,  if 
'well  let  alone,'  I  should  never  have  said. 

As  for  your  indignation  at  my  not  writing,  I  don't  quarrel  with 
that — only  beg  to  remind  you  that  '  the  reciprocity  is  not  all  on  one 
side ! '  I  also  have  been  feeling  myself  extremely  neglected — for 
what  shall  I  say?  '  unborn  generations?  '  Let  us  hope  so,  and  not 
for  just  nothing  at  all! 

Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  227. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  TJwrnhill. 

5  Cheyne  Kow,  Chelsea:  Sept.  7,  1880. 

Dearest  Mary, — I  am  so  sorry  that  letter  should  have  arrived  to 
mislead  you,  for,  alas!  I  have  had  no  thought  of  starting  again, 
since  I  found,  on  my  return  home,  that  Mr.  C.  had  made  a  per- 
fectly  wrong  impression  on  me  as  to  his  plans!  When  he  talked 
of  'sailing'  by  such  a  steamer,  how  could  I  imagine  he  only  meant 
sailing  to  Aberdeen,  and  afterwards  making  visits  in  Scotland? 
He  had  always  declared  the  attraction  of  Thurso,  for  him,  to  be 
the  possibility  of  getting  there  and  back  by  sea,  without  any  horror 
of  'railwaying.'  And  he  had  never  once  spoken  of  returning 
through  Dumfriesshire!  My  error  was  quite  natural,  almost  in- 
evitable. But  that  doesn't  make  it  the  less  mortifying  for  myself 
and  others. 

If  I  had  ordinary  powers  of  locomotion  I  should,  on  perceiving 
the  real  state  of  the  case,  have  streamed  off  again — this  time  straight 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  l3d 

to  the  Gill.  But  indeed,  my  dear,  I  have  no  such  thing  as  ordinary 
strength.  When  I  told  my  doctor  that  Mr.  C.  urged  me  to  do  this, 
he'fairly  swore,  though  a  very  mild  man  by  nature!  It  was  not 
merely  the  ground  to  be  gone  over,  but  the  fuss  and  flurry  of  so 
much  travelling  for  me,  that  he  entirely  protested  against.  '  Quiet, 
quiet,  quiet '  was  what  I  needed  above  everything  else — no  change 
could  do  me  good  that  involved  fatigue  or  fret  of  mind.  I  know 
he  is  right  in  that,  and  that  no  purer  air  nor  change  of  scene  could 
do  me  good  if  bought  with  a  new  unsettling  of  myself,  and  the 
hurry  of  mind  inseparable  from  travelling,  especially  railway  trav- 
elling, for  a  person  whose  nervous  system  is  in  such  a  preternatural 
state  of  excitability  as  mine  is.  I  should  never  have  had  courage 
to  think  of  going  to  you  at  all  but  for  the  week's  rest  in  the  middle 
of  the  journey,  offered  in  the  visit  to  Alderley.  It  has  been  a  real 
disappointment  to  me,  having  had  to  turn  back,  and  a  great  provo- 
cation to  find  my  turning  back  unnecessary.  But,  now  that  I  am 
here,  I  must  make  the  best  of  it. 

I  will  write  you  a  long  letter  soon,  and  tell  you  several  tilings 
about  my  household  affairs  which  will  throw  more  light  for  you  on 
the  supposed  necessity  for  my  abrupt  return. 

God  bless  you,  dear. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carltle. 


LETTER  238. 

'I  did  it,  sir.' — Blusterous  pedagogue,  a  Welsh  Archdeacon  Wil- 
liams, head  of  the  Edinburglj  New  Academy  (who  used  to  call  at 
Comely  Bank,  reporting  to  us  his  dreadful  illness  lie  once  had,  ill- 
ness miserable  and  fatal  '  unless  you  can  dine  for  three  weeks  with- 
out wine  '—'and  I  did  it,  sir! '— T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Sunday  night,  Sept.  10, 1860. 
Oh,  my  dear!  was  there  ever  sucli  a  game  at  cross-purposes  as 
this  correspondence  of  ours?     Il  reminds  nic  f)f  nothing  so  much  as 
the  passages  between  'the  wee  witie.  who  lived  in  a  shoe,'  and  her 
bairns,  so  many  '  that  she  didn't  know  what  to  do! ' 

'  She  went  to  the  market  to  buy  them  some  bread; 
When  she  came  back  they  were  nil  lyin?  dead ! 
She  went  to  the  Wright's  to  get  them  a  coffin ; 
When  she  came  back  they  wore  all  sitting  laughing  1 ' 


140  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Not  one  letter  you  have  written  to  me  since  you  went  away  has 
hit  the  right  state  of  things!  Do  the  best  that  ever  you  could,  your 
'sheep's  head'  and  your  'coffin'  have  been  equally  out  of  time! 
Such  being,  I  suppose,  the  natural  result  of  going  where  an  answer 
to  one's  letters  cannot  be  received  in  less  than  six  days,  in  a  world 
where  nothing  keeps  still. 

Your  last  letter,  received  on  Saturday  morning,  expressing  your 
relief  from  anxieties  about  me,  found  me  a  more  legitimate  object 
of  anxiety  than  I  had  been  at  all  since  your  departure ! — at  least 
found  me  thinking  myself  so!  For,  thank  God,  this  attack,  if  very 
violent  while  it  lasted,  has  passed  off  unexpectedly  soon.  I  suppose 
if  I  had  followed  Mr.  Barnes's  directions  about  lying  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  instead  of  yielding  to  popular  clamour  about 
'  change  of  air,'  the  thing  would  have  been  avoided  altogether.  On 
Friday  morning  down  came  Geraldine,  having  had  a  letter  from 
you,  and  insisted  that  we  should  make  one  of  those  '  excursions '  I 
had  talked  of.  I  had  my  '  sickness '  (as  I  call  it)  worse  than  usual 
that  morning,  and  begged  to  be  off  from  any  adventure;  but  'a 
breath  of  Norwood  air  would  dome  so  much  good!'  'It  would 
take  off  the  sickness  to  sit  on  the  hillside,'  &c.,  &c.  I  didn't  feel 
that  it  would,  but  foolishly  yielded  to  '  reason '  rather  than  instinct. 
The  movement  made  me  sicker,  and  sicker;  still  I  had  fortitude  to 
order  dinner  (a  nice  little  roasted  cliicksn,  and  a  bottle  of  soda-water) 
at  the  best  hotel,  and  to  force  myself  to  eat  some  of  it  too,  at  an 
open  bow-window,  with  such  a  '  beautiful  view.'  But,  oh,  how  I 
wished  myself  in  my  bed  at  liome,  with  no  view  to  speak  of!  for  I 
had  grown  all  burning-hot  and  ice-cold,  not  a  square  inch  of  me  at 
the  same  temperature,  and  'my  head  like  a  mall!' 

I  got  home,  better  or  worse,  and  went  to  bed,  and  lay,  or  rather 
tossed  about,  all  night  in  a  high  fever,  with  a  racking  headache, 
severe  sickness,  and,  most  questionable  of  all,  a  bad  sore  throat.  I 
only  waited  for  Mr.  Barnes  being  up  to  send  for  him,  though  he 
had  given  me  up  as  a  patient.  Without  having  had  a  wink  of  sleep, 
however,  or  anything  to  do  me  good,  my  fever  abated  of  itself  as 
the  morning  advanced;  and,  after  having  had  some  tea  in  bed,  be- 
tween seven  and  eight,  '  all  very  comfortable,'  from  the  new  woman, 
I  felt  so  much  better  that  I  should  have  held  my  hand  from  sending 
for  a  doctor  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  sore  throat,  which  continued 
very  bad,  and  frightened  me  from  its  unusual  nature.  Mr.  Barnes 
was  out,  and  didn't  come  in  to  get  the  message  till  three  o'clock,  by 
which  time  I  had  transferred  myself  to  the  drawing-room  sofa. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  141 

Meanwhile,  long  before  this,  being  still  in  bed,  but  washed  and 
combed,  and  the  room  tidied  up  in  expectation  of  Mr.  Barnes,  there 

was  sent  up  to  me  the  card  of  Madame !  two  hours  after  I  had 

read  your  wish  that  I  should  call  for  her!  And  I  heard  her  voice 
in  the  passage!  I  sent  down  polite  regrets  in  the  first  instance;  then, 
thinking  you  would  be  vexed  at  my  not  admitting  her,  I  called 
Charlotte  ('  Charlotte  '  the  second)  back,  and  said,  to  tell  the  lady, 
if  she  wouldn't  dislike  coming  to  me  in  my  bedroom,  that  I  should 
be  glad  to  see  her  '  for  a  minute.'  If  I  had  known  that  she  was  to 
flop  down  on  the  bed,  and  cover  my  face  with  kisses  (!)  the  first 
thing,  I  should  have  thought  twice  of  admitting  her,  with  the  sore 
throat  I  had!  However,  the  thing  was  done!  So  I  didn't  say  a 
word  of  sore  throat  to  put  infection  in  her  head,  and  indeed  I  hoped 
it  mightn't  be  of  an  infectious  nature.  As  for  the  'minute,'  she 
prolonged  it  to  an  hour;  talking  with  an  emphasis,  and  an  exagger- 
ation, and  a  velocity,  and  cordiality,  which  left  me  little  to  do  but 
listen,  and  not  scream!  I  will  tell  you  all  I  remember  of  her  talk 
when  we  meet.  She  will  be  again  in  London  towards  the  end  of 
October.  She  went  off  with  the  same,  or  rather  redoubled,  embrac- 
ings  and  kissings;  I,  purposely,  holding  in  my  breath;  and  when  the 
door  had  closed,  didn't  I  fall  back  on  my  pillows  with  a  sense  of 
relief! 

Mr.  Barnes  looked  into  my  throat,  and  said  it  was  bad ;  but  if  I 
had  '  courage  to  swallow  the  very  ugliest,  most  extraordinary-look- 
ing medicine  I  had  ever  seen  in  this  world,  he  thought  he  could 
cure  it  in  a  day  or  two; '  and  there  came  a  bottle  containing  appar- 
ently bright  blue  oil-paint!!  It  did  need  courage,  and  faith,  to  take 
the  first  dose  of  that!  But  'I  did  it,  sir! '  and  positively,  as  if  by 
magic,  my  throat  mended  in  half  an  hour!  I  had  a  good  night; 
the  throat  was  a  little  sore  only  in  the  morning.  The  second  dose 
had  the  same  magically  sudden  effect,  and  now,  after  three  half- 
glassfuls  of  that  magical  blue  oil-paint,  my  throat  is  perfectly 
mended,  and  I  am  as  well  as  before  I  knocked  myself  up. 

Monday. — For  the  rest,  all  that  has  been  said  and  written  about 
my  turning  back  and  about  my  not  starting  again  is  kindly  meant, 
but  being  said  or  written  in  total  or  in  partial  ignorance  of  the  sub- 
ject, quite  overshoots  or  undershoots  the  mark;  is,  in  fact,  perfect 
nonsense,  setting  itself  up  for  superior  sense!  'Why  not  have  left 
yo>i  to  "  fen"  for  yourself,  if  you  had  come  home  in  my  absence? ' 
your  sister  Jane  asks;  '  if  she  had  been  me,  she  would  have  done 
that.'    And  I  would  have  done  it  if  I  had  been  she  perhaps. 

Ever  yours,  J.  W,  C. 


142  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  229. 

T.  Garlyle,  The  Gill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  Sept.  17, 1860. 

You  will  open  this,  prepared  to  hear  that  I  went  to  Forster's,' 
and  have  been  very  ill  in  consequence.  If  there  be  a  choice  betwixt 
a  wise  thing  and  a  foolish  one,  a  woman  is  alwa}'s  expected  to  do 
the  foolish.  Well,  I  didn't!  Very  ill  I  have  been,  but  not  from 
going  out  to  dinner.  By  one  o'clock  that  day  I  was  quite  ill 
enough  to  care  no  more  for  Fuz's  wrath  than  for  a  whiff  of  tobacco! 
I  bad  taken  the  influenza,  and  no  doubt  about  it!  So  I  despatched 
a  message  to  Montagu  Square,  and  another  to  Mr.  Barnes;  went  to 
bed,  and  have  not  slept  till  within  the  last  hour!  So  provoking! 
I  had  been  so  much  better,  and  hoped  1o  be  quite  flourishing  on 
your  return.  Howsomdever  an  influenza  properly  treated,  and  an 
influenza  allowed  to  treat  itself,  like  all  my  former  ones,  is  a  very 
different  affair  I  find.  It  has  not  been  allowed  to  settle  down  on 
my  chest  at  all,  this  one;  and,  after  only  three  days  of  sharp  suffer- 
ing, here  I  am  in  the  drawing-room,  looking  forward  with  some 
interest  to  the  sweet  bread  I  am  to  dine  on,  and  writing  you  a  let- 
ter better  or  worse. 

The  new  woman  is  a  good  nurse,  very  quiet  and  kindly,  and 
with  sense  to  do  things  without  being  told.  I  have  not  had  my 
clothes  folded  neatly  up,  and  the  room  tidied,  and  my  wants 
anticipated  in  this  way  since  I  had  no  longer  any  mother  to  nurse 
me.  In  ordinary  circumstances  I  should  have  felt  it  horrid  to  be 
lying  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  an  utter  stranger;  but,  being  as  she 
is,  I  have  wished  none  else  to  come  near  me.  Even  you  I  rather 
hope  may  not  come  this  week.  It  would  worry  me  so,  not  to  be 
able  to  run  about  when  you  come,  and  I  must  be  cautious  for  some 
days  yet — 'Mrs.  Prudence,'  as  Mr.  Barnes  calls  me  in  mockery. 
The  girl  is  to  come  to-morrow,  but  I  don't  feel  to  trouble  my  head 
about  her.  Charlotte  (2nd)  can  be  trusted  to  direct  her  in  the  way 
she  should  go  till  I  am  well  enough  to  meddle.  Besides  I  have 
every  reason  to  believe  her  a  nice  girl.  The  old  Charlotte,  poor 
foolish  thing!  is  still  hanging  on  at  her  '  mother's.'  just  as  untidy  in 
her  person,  with  nothing  to  do,  as  she  used  to  be  in  her  press  of 
work.     She  has  been  much  about  me,  and  I  don't  know  what  1 

'  Alluding  to  close  of  last  letter,  omitted. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  143 

shouM  have  done  without  her,  to  cook  for  me,  and  show  me  some 
human  kindness,  when  I  was  ill  under  '  Old  Jane.'  But  I  am  glad 
at  the  same  time  that  I  had  fortitude  to  resist  her  tears,  and  her  re- 
quest to  be  taken  back  as  cook.  I  told  her  some  day  I  might  take 
her  back;  but  she  had  much  to  learn  and  to  unlearn  first.  Still  it 
is  gratif3'ing  to  feel  that  one's  kindness  to  the  girl  has  not  been  all 
lost  on  her,  for  she  really  loves  both  of  us  passionately — only  that 
passionate  loves,  not  applied  to  practical  uses,  are  g»od  for  so  little 
in  this  matter-of-fact  world. 

Kindest  love  to  dear  Mary.  Tell  her  I  will  make  out  that  visit 
some  day,  on  my  own  basis;  it  is  only  postponed.  '  Thank  God,' 
you  can't  get  any  clothes. 

Yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  230. 

I  seem  to  have  got  home  again,  September  22.  Halted  at  Alder- 
ley  a  couple  of  days;  of  Anuandale,  the  Gill,  or  Dumfries  I  re- 
member nothing  whatever,  except  the  last  morning  at  the  Gill 
(which  is  still  vivid  enough),  and  my  wandering  about  in  manifold 
sorrowful  reflections,  loth  to  quit  that  kindly,  safe  tugurium;  and 
also  privatel)-  my  making  resolution  (seeing  tlie  fitness  of  it),  not  to 
revisit  Scotland  till  the  unutterable  Frederick  were  done — resolu- 
tion sad  and  silent,  which  I  believe  was  kept. — T.  C. 

Mrs.  Austin,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  Oct.  19, 1860. 
My  dear  Mary, — The  box  arrived  last  night,  'all  right.'  Many 
thanks,  Mary  dear.  The  things  from  Dumfries  are  also  all  right; 
but  I  will  write  to  tell  Jane  about  them  to-morrow.  Mr.  C.  doesn't 
seem  to  have  benefited  from  his  long  sojourn  by  the  sea-side  so 
much  as  I  had  hoped,  and  at  first  thought.  He  still  goes  on  wak- 
ing up  several  times  in  the  night — when  he  bolts  up,  and  smokes, 
and  sometimes  takes  a  cold  bath!  And  all  that  is  very  dismal  for 
him,  to  whom  waking  betwixt  lying  down  and  getting  up  is  a 
novelty.  For  me,  my  own  wakings  up  some  twenty  or  thirty  times 
every  night  of  my  life,  for  years  and  years  back,  are  nothing  com- 
pared with  hearing  him  jump  out  of  bed  overhead,  once  or  some- 
times twice  during  a  nighl.  Before  he  went  to  Thurso,  that  sound 
overhead  used  to  set  my  heart  a-thumping  to  such  a  degree  that  I 
couldn't  get  another  wink  of  sleep — and  I  was  on  the  brink  of  a 


144  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS   OF 

nervous  fever  when  he  left.'  Now  that  my  nerves  have  had  a  rest, 
and  that  I  am  more  '  used  to  it,'  I  get  to  sleep  again  when  I  hear 
all  quiet,  but  God  knows  how  long  I  may  be  up  to  that!  And 
when  he  has  broken  sleep,  and  I  no  sleep  at  all,  it  is  sad  work  here, 
I  assure  you. 

You  will  have  heard  of  my  setting  up  a  second  servant,  and 
•think  perhaps  that  I  must  be  more  comfortable  now,  with  two  peo- 
ple to  work  and  run  for  us;  but  I  would  much  rather  have  made 
less  working  and  less  running  do,  and  kept  to  my  accustomed  one 
servant.  I  have  never  felt  the  house  my  own  since  my  raaid-of-all- 
work  was  converted  into  a  '  cook'  and  '  housemaid,'  and  don't  feel 
as  if  I  should  ever  get  used  to  the  improvement.  It  is  just  as  if  one 
had  taken  lodgers  into  one's  lower  story.  Often  in  the  dead  of 
night  I  am  seized  with  a  wild  desire  to  clear  the  house  of  these  new- 
comers, and  take  back  my  one  little  Charlotte,  who  is  still  hanging 
on  at  her  mother's,  in  a  wild  hope  than  one  or  other  of  them,  or 
both,  may  break  down,  and  she  be  reinstated  in  her  place.  Poor 
little  Charlotte!  if  I  had  seen  how  miserable  she  was  to  be  at  leav- 
ing us,  I  couldn't  have  found  in  my  heart  to  put  her  way,  though 
she  was  so  heedless,  and  '  thro'  other,'*  with  a  grain  of  method  she 
could  have  done  all  the  two  do,  as  well  or  better  than  they  do  it, 
she  was  so  clever  and  willing. 

The  new  tall  Charlotte  (the  cook)  said  to  me  one  day  '  little  Char- 
lotte '  had  been  here:  '  What  a  fool  that  girl  is,  ma'am!  I  said  to 
her  to-day,  "You  seem  to  like  being  here!"  and  says  she,  "Of 
course  I  do;  I  look  upon  this  as  my  home."  "But,"  says  I,  " you 
are  a  nice-looking,  healthy  girl,  you  will  easily  get  another  place  if 
you  try."  "Oh,"  says  she,  "I  know  that.  I  may  get  plenty  of 
places;  but  I  shall  never  get  another  home!"  What  a  poor  spirit 
the  girl  has!  If  anybody  had  been  dissatisfied  with  me,  it's  little 
that  I  should  care  about  leaving  them.'  'I  can  well  believe  that,' 
said  I,  with  a  strong  disposition  to  knock  her  down.  But  I  have 
no  pretext  for  putting  the  woman  away — although  I  don't  like  her. 
She  is  a  good  servant  as  servants  go,  and  I  can't  put  her  away 
merely  for  being  vulgar-minded,  and  totally  destitute  of  sentiment; 
and,  after  all,  the  faults  for  which  I  parted  with  little  Charlotte 
after  twelve  months  of  considering  won't  have  been  cured,  but 
rather  have  been  aggravated  by  three  months'  muddling  at  her 
mother's.  Heigh-ho !  I  feel  just  in  the  case  of  the  '  Edinburgh  meat, 
jack:'  'Once  I  was  happ  happ-happ-y !    but  now  I  am  mee-e-ser- 

'  Poor  loving  soul !  '^  Durcheinander  (German)  as  an  adjective, 


'JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  145 

ablel '  If  one's  skiu  were  a  trifle  thicker,  all  these  worries  would 
seem  light.  But  one's  skin  being  just  no  skin  'to  speak  of,' no 
wonder  one  falls  into  the  meat-jack  humour.  God  bless  you  and  all 
your  belongings.     Kind  regards  to  your  husband. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carltle. 

LETTER  231. 

To  Miss  Margaret  WelsJi,  Auchtertool  Manse. 

Chelsea:  Decembers,  IMO. 

Dearest  Maggie, — Having  made  no  sign  of  myself  for  the  last 
month,  you  may  be  fancying  I  have  succumbed  to  the  general 
doom ;  seeing  that  it  has  been  '  the  gloomy  month  of  November,  in 
which  the  people  of  England  hang  and  drown  themselves! '  But  I 
am  neitlier  hanged  nor  drowned  yet  (in  virtue  perhaps  of  being  bom 
in  Scotland);  only,  all  my  energies  having  been  needed  to  stave  oflf 
suicide,  I  had  none  left  for  letter-writing.  It  is  now  December, 
and  the  suicidal  mania  should  have  passed  off;  but  I  can't  see  much 
difference  between  this  December  and  the  gloomiest  November  on 
record !  the  fog,  and  the  mud,  and  the  liquid  soot  (called  rain  in 
the  language  of  flattery),  have  not  abated;  and  the  blood  in  one's 
veins  feels  so  tliick  and  dirty!  But,  shame  of  my  silence  must 
serve  instead  of  inspiration,  impossible  under  the  circumstances; 
and  you,  dear,  good  little  soul  as  you  are,  will  not  be  critical! 

In  the  first  place  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  I  am  '  about '  anyhow. 
Except  for  one  week  that  I  had  to  lie  on  the  sofa  on  my  back,  with 
neuralgia  (differing  in  nothing,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  from  tlie  old- 
fashioned  '  rheumatiz '),  I  have  not  been  laid  up  since  you  heard  of 
ine;  and  I  have  had  a  great  fret  taken  off  me,  in  the  removal 
of  that  vulgar,  conceited  woman,  and  the  restoration  of  little  Char- 
lotte. Upon  my  word,  I  haven't  been  as  near  what  they  call  '  happy  ' 
for  many  a  day  as  in  the  first  flush  of  little  Charlotte!  She  looked 
so  bursting  with  ecstasy  as  she  ran  up  and  down  the  house,  taking 
possession,  as  it  were,  of  her  old  work,  and  as  she  showed  in  the 
visitors  (not  her  business,  but  she  would  open  the  door  to  them  all 
the  first  time,  to  show  herself,  and  receive  their  congratulations), 
that  it  was  impossible  not  to  share  in  her  delighted  excitement! 
^lost  of  the  people  shook  hands  with  her!  and  all  of  them  said  they 
were  '  glad  to  see  her  back  ' !  I  had  trusted  that  she  would  in  time 
humanise  the  other  girl,  and  that  the  two  would  be  good  friends, 
11. —7 


146  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

when  the  other  girl  got  over  the  prejudices  the  woman  who  had  left 
had  inspired  her  with!  But  it  needed  no  time  at  all.  Sarah  was 
humanised,  and  the  two  sworn  friends  in  the  first  half-hour!  In 
the  first  half-hour  Sarah  bad  confided  to  Charlotte  that,  if  I  hadn't 
given  the  tall  Charlotte  warning,  she  (Sarah)  would  have  given  me 
warning,  she  disliked  '  tall  Charlotte  '  so  much! 

It  is  now  three  weeks  since  the  new  order  of  tilings;  mistress  and 
maid  have  subsided  out  of  the  emotional  state  into  the  normal  one, 
but  are  still  very  glad  over  one  another;  and  if  the  work  of  the 
house  does  not  get  done  with  as  much  order  and  method  as  under 
the  tall  Charlotte,  it  is  done  with  more  thoroughness,  and  infinitely- 
more  heartiness  and  pleasantness;  and  the  'bread-puddings'  are 
first  rate.  Sarah's  tidiness  and  method  are  just  what  were  wanted 
to  correct  little  Charlotte's  born  tendency  to  muddle;  while  little 
Charlotte's  willingness  and  affectionateness  warm  up  Sarah's  drier, 
more  selfish  nature.  It  is  a  curious  establishment,  with  something 
of  the  sound  and  character  of  a  nursery.  Charlotte  not  nineteen 
till  next  March,  and  Sarah  seventeen  last  week.  And  they  keep 
up  an  incessant  chirping  and  chattering  and  laughing;  and  as  both 
have  remarkably  sweet  voices,  it  is  pleasant  to  hear.  The  two-ness 
is  no  nuisance  to  me  now.  As  neither  can  awake  of  themselves,  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  about  that,  hadn't  Charlotte's 
friends  come  to  the  rescue.  An  old  man  who  lodges  with  Char- 
lotte's '  mother  '  (aunt),  raps  on  the  kitchen  window  till  he  wakes 
them,  every  morning  at  six,  on  his  way  to  his  work;  and  Charlotte's 
'father'  (uncle)  raps  again  on  the  window  before  seven,  to  make 
sure  the  first  summons  had  been  attended  to!  to  say  notliing  of  an 
alarum,  which  runs  down  at  six,  at  their  very  bed-head,  and  never 
is  heard  by  either  of  these  fortunate  girls !  So  I  daresay  we  shall 
get  on  as  well  as  possible  in  a  world  where  perfection  is  not  to  be 
looked  for.  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  that  your  domesticities  are  in 
as  flourishing  a  state! 

I  hope  we  shall  go  to  the  Grange  by-and-by,  and  make  a  longer 
visit  than  last  year.  It  is  such  a  good  break  in  the  long,  dreary, 
Chelsea  winter,  and  stirs  up  one's  stagnant  spirits,  and  rules  up 
one's  manners!  But  Mr.  Carlyle  won't  stay  anywhere  if  he  can't 
get  work  done;  and  thougli  Lady  Ashburton  says  he  shall  have 
every  facility  afforded  him  for  working,  I  don't  know  how  that  will 
be  when  it  comes  to  be  tried.  I  never  saw  any  work  done  in  that 
house!  Meanwhile,  I  have  sent  an  azure  blue  vioire,  that  Lady 
Sandwich  gave  me  last  Christmas  Day,  to  be  made,  in  case. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  147 

Mj'  dear,  beautiful  Kate  Sterling  (Mrs.  Ross)  was  buried  last  -^-eek 
at  Bournemouth,  where  she  had  been  taken  for  the  winter.  I  had 
long  been  hopeless  of  her  recovery,  but  did  not  think  the  end  so 
near,  and  that  I  should  never  see  her  sweet  face  again.  Julia  came 
to  see  me  yesterday  on  her  return,  looking  miserably  ill.  Poor  ^Ir. 
Ross  wrote  me  a  sad,  kind  letter.  I  am  very  sorry  for  him;  and 
none  of  the  family  treat  him  as  if  he  had  anything  to  do  with  their 
loss.  He  was  not  a  man  one  would  ever  have  wished  Kate  to 
marry,  but  he  has  been  the  most  devoted  husband,  and  tenderest 
nurse  to  her;  and  she  said  to  her  sister  Lotta,  the  day  before  her 
death,  that  she  had  repented  doing  many  things  in  her  life,  but  she 
had  never  for  one  moment  repented  her  marriage!  Surely  that 
should  have  made  them  all  less  hard  for  him!    But,  no! 

Kindest  love  to  "Walter  and  Star. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  233. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Dec.  31,  1860. 
Dearest  Mary, — If  there  were  no  other  use  in  a  letter  from  me 
just  now,  it  will  serve  the  purpose  of  removing  any  apprehensions 
you  may  have  as  to  the  frost  having  put  an  end  to  my  life!  '  Did 
you  ever?'  'No,  I  never,' — felt  such  cold!  But  then,  there  be- 
ing no  question  for  me  of  ever  crossing  the  threshold,  and  my  time 
thrown  altogether  on  my  hands  (my  visitors  being  mostly  away, 
keeping  their  Christmas  in  countr}^  houses,  or,  like  myself,  shut  up 
with  colds  at  home,  or  too  busy  with  '  the  festivities  of  the  season  ' 
to  get  as  far  as  Chelsea,  and  my  two  maids  leaving  me  nothing 
earthly  to  do  in  the  business  of  the  house),  I  have  time,  enough  and 
to  spare,  for  adopting  all  possible  measures  to  keep  myself  warm. 
To  see  the  fires  I  keep  up  in  the  drawing-room  and  my  bed-room! 
An  untopographical  observer  might  suppose  we  lived  within  a  mile 
of  a  coal  pit,  instead  of  paying  twenty-eight  shillings  a  cart-load 
for  coals!  Then  I  wear  all  my  flannel  petticoats  at  once,  and  am 
having  two  new  ones  made  out  of  a  pair  of  Scotch  blankets! 
And  Lady  Sandwich  has  sent  me  a  seal-fur  pelisse  (a  luxury 
I  had  long  sighed  for,  but,  costing  twenty  guineas,  it  had 
seemed  hopeless!),  and  a  Greek  merchant'  has  sent  me  the  softest 

>  Dilberoglue. 


148  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

grey  Indian  shawl.  And  if  all  that  can't  warm  me,  I  lie  down 
under  my  coverlet  of  racoon  skins!  (My  dear!  if  you  are  perishing, 
act  upon  my  idea  of  the  Scotch  blankets;  no  flannel  comes  near 
them  in  point  of  warmth.)  My  doctor  told  me,  in  addition  to  all 
this  outward  covering,  to  drink  '  at  least  three  glasses  of  wine  a 
day! '  But  I  generally  shirk  the  third.  And  the  cough,  and  face- 
ache,  which  I  had  the  first  week  of  the  frost,  is  gone  this  week,  at 
any  rate. 

Have  you  seen  that  Tale  of  Horror,  which  ran  through  the  news- 
papers, about  the  Marquis  of  Downsliire?  Everybody  here  believed 
for  some  days  that  the  Marquis  of  Downsliire  had  really  found  the 
skipper  of  his  yacht  kneeling  at  tlie  side  of  Lady  Alice  (his  only 
daughter,  a  lovely  girl  of  seventeen),  and  really  pitched  him  into 
the  sea,  and  so  there  was  an  end  of  him !  I  was  dreadfully  sorry, 
for  one.  Lord  D.  is  such  a  dear,  good,  kind-hearted  savage  of  a 
man;  and  it  seemed  such  a  fatality  that  he  should  be  always  killing 
somebody!!  He  had  killed  a  school  companion,  without  meaning 
it;  and  afterwards  (they  say)  a  coalheaver,  who  was  boxing  with 
him!  The  fact  is,  he  is  awfully  strong,  and  his  strokes  tell,  as  he 
doesn't  expect.  But  if  you  knew  what  a  simple,  good  man  he  is, 
you  wouldn't  wonder  that  I  felt  sorrier  for  him  than  the  skipper, 
who,  after  all,  had  no  business  to  be  '  kneeling'  there  surely!  And 
the  little  darling  daughter,  that  her  young  life  should  be  clouded  at 
the  outset  with  such  a  scandal !  I  made  all  sorts  of  miserable  re- 
flections about  them  all.  And  the  story,  all  the  while,  a  complete 
fabrication — equal  to  the  proverbial  story  of  the  '  six  black  crows! ' 
The  story  was  told  to  Azeglio  (the  Sardinian  Ambassador),  who,  to 
give  himself  importance,  said,  '  Oh,  yes!  it  had  been  officially  com- 
municated to  him  from  Naples.'  And  the  man  he  said  it  to,  being 
Secretary  of  Legation,  made  an  ofiicial  despatch  of  the  story  to 
Lord  Cowley  at  Paris!!  Then  it  flew  like  wild-fire,  and  people 
couldn't  help  believing  it;  and,  of  course,  all  sorts  of  details  were 
added — that  Lady  Alice  was  '  struggling  and  screaming,  that  Lord 
D.  wouldn't  let  a  boat  be  lowered  to  pick  the  man  up,'  &c.  «&c. 
One  knows  how  a  story  gathers  like  a  snowball.  They  went  the 
length  of  stating  that  Lord  D.  was  being  brought  home  to  be  tried 
by  the  Peers,  '  the  offence  having  been  committed  on  the  high 
seas!!! '  The  talk  now  is  all  of  prosecution  of  certain  newspapers 
and  certain  people.  But  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  all  end  in  Lord 
Downshire's  giving  somebody  a  good  thrashing. 

Please  to  give  my  good  wishes  '  of  the  season  '  to  all  my  friends 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  149 

at  Thornbill  and  about,  and  to  attend  to  the  old  women  on  New 
Year's  Day.  I  send  a  cheque  this  lime.  The  Japanese  trays  are 
for  the  new  drawing-room,  if  j'ou  tliink  them  worth  a  place  in  it. 
I  took  them  as  far  as  Alderley  on  the  road  in  autumn.  They  are  a 
popular  drawing-room  ornament  here  at  present.  Kindest  regards 
to  the  Doctor. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Carlylb^ 

LETTER  233. 

To  Miss  Barnes,  King's  Road,  Chelsea. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Sunday,  April  26,  1861. 
Carina, — I  was  going  to  you  today,  having  been  hindered  yester- 
day; but  a  thought  strikes  me.  You  are  a  Puseyite,  or,  as  my  old 
Scotch  servant  writes  it,  a  'Puisht,'  and  I  am  a  Presbyterian; 
would  it  be  proper  for  you  to  receive  me,  or  for  me  to  pay  a  visit  on 
Sunday?  I  don't  quite  know  as  to  you;  but  for  me  it  is  a  thing  foi-- 
bidden  certainly.  So  I  write  to  say  that  if  you  could  have  gone  to 
the  gorillas  to-morrow,  the  gorillas  would  have  been  '  not  at  home.' 
On  consulting  my  order  of  admission  I  find  it  is  for  all  days  except 
just  the  two  I  successively  fixed  upon,  Saturdays  and  Mondays. 
My  order  is  available  through  all  the  month  of  May,  so  it  will  still 
be  time  when  you  return,  provided  you  do  not  indefinitely  extend 
your  programme,  as  you  are  in  the  habit  of  doing.  I  shall  fix  with 
the  others  for  Tuesday,  28th,  early — say  to  start  between  eleven  and 
twelve.    Will  that  do? 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlylk. 

LETTER  234. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  July  3, 1861. 

Decidedly,  dearest  Mary,  I  am  in  a  run  of  bad  luck,  and  enter- 
taining for  a  moment  any  idea  of  pleasure  seems  to  be  the  signal 
with  me  for  some  misfortune  to  plunge  down. 

The  longer  I  thought  of  it,  the  more  it  seemed  to  me  fair  and 
feasible  that,  since  Mr.  C.  was  minded  to  go  nowhere  this  summer, 
I  should  go  for  two  or  three  weeks  by  myself  where  I  had  been  so 
unreasonably  disappointed  of  going  last  August.     Mr.  C.  himself 


150  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

said  I  might,  '  if  I  thought  it  would  be  useful  to  me ;'  and  there  could 
be  no  question  about  its  being  '  useful  to  me  '  to  have  a  breath  of 
Scotch  air  and  a  glimpse  of  dear  Scotch  faces.  So,  when  I  had 
read  your  cordial  letter,  I  felt  my  purpose  strong  to  carry  itself  out, 
and  only  delayed  answering  till  I  had  seen  the  baking  difficulty 
overcome,  and  could  say,  positively,  that  I  would  come  as  soon  as 
you  pleased  after  your  visitor  had  departed.  Two  visitors  at  one 
time  is  too  much  happiness,  I  think,  for  any  not  over  strong  mis- 
tress of  a  house,  who  gives  herself  so  much  trouble  as  you  do  to 
make  everything  comfortable  and  pleasant  about  one. 

And,  in  the  meantime,  here  is  what  has  befallen.  My  nice  trust- 
worthy cook,  who  inspired  me  with  the  confidence  to  leave  Mr.  C, 
being  certain,  I  thought,  to  keep  hira  all  right,  and  the  house  all 
right,  and  the  young  girl  all  right,  in  my  absence;  this  treasure  of 
a  cook,  my  dear,  who  was  to  be  the  comfort  of  my  remaining 
years,  and  nurse  me  in  my  last  illness  (to  such  wild  flights  had  my 
imagination  gone),  turns  out  to  have  come  into  my  service  with  a 
frightful  neglected  disorder— what  tlie  doctors  call  'strangulated 
hernia,'  making  her  life  (my  doctor  says)  '  not  safe  for  a  day! '  He 
could  do  nothing  witli  it,  he  said;  she  must  go  to  St.  George's 
Hospital,  and  what  was  possible  to  do  for  her  would  be  done  thei'e. 
But  I  have  no  hope  that  the  woman  will  ever  be  fit  for  service  again. 
And  what  she  could  mean  in  going  into  a  new  service  with  such  a 
complaint  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive.  And  I  am  also  dreadfully  at 
a  loss  what  I  am  to  do  with  her.  She  is  such  a  good  creature,  and 
hasn't  a  relation  in  the  world  to  depend  upon.  If  the  doctors  take 
her  as  an  in-patient,  of  course  it  would  settle  the  question  of  her 
leaving  here;  but  if  they  don't — !  Oh,  my  gracious,  how  unlucky 
it  is!    In  any  case,  I  see  no  chance  for  me  now  of  getting  to  you. 

Unless,  indeed,  she  could  be  cured  sufficiently  to  go  on  at  ser- 
vice. I  shall  know  more  about  it  when  she  comes  back  from  the 
hospital,  or  when  I  have  spoken  with  one  of  the  surgeons  there 
whom  I  know.  But  unless  the  case  is  much  less  grave  than  Mr. 
Barnes  seemed  to  consider  it,  we  shall  be  all  at  sea  again.  And  the 
best  arrangement  I  can  think  of,  for  the  moment,  would  be  to  put 
my  new  housemaid  into  the  kitchen,  for  which  she  is  better  suited 
than  for  her  present  place,  only  that  she  would  have  the  cooking 
all  to  learn! — and  to  take  another  nice  girl  I  know  of  for  house- 
maid. But  fancy  the  weeks  and  months  it  will  take  to  get  even 
that  most  feasible  scheme  to  work  right,  and  all  the  while  I  must 
be  standing  between  Mr.  C.  and  new  bother,  and  looking  after  these 


JANE  WELSH  CAKLYLE.  151 

girls  that  they  may  be  kept  in  good  ways!  I  declare  I  could  take  a 
good  cry,  or  do  a  little  good  swearing!  I  will  stop  now  till  the  poor 
woman  comes  back  from  the  hospital;  and  then  tell  you  the  news 
she  brings. 

No  Matilda  come  yet,  and  I  must  take  the  letters  myself  now  to 
the  post-oflBce,  having  nobody  to  send. 
I  will  write  soon. 

Your  much  bedevilled,  but  always  loving, 

J.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  235. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Tuesday,  July  16, 1861. 

Dearest  Mary, — Mr.  Dunbar's '  book  was  from  you,  was  it  not  ? 
I  used  to  be  able  to  swear  to  your  handwriting;  but  latterly  one  or 
two  people  have  taken  to  writing  exactly  like  you,  and  I  need  the 
post-mark  to  verify  the  handwriting,  and  the  post-mark  was  illegi- 
ble on  that  book-parcel.  Whether  from  you  or  not,  I  am  glad  of 
the  little  book,  which  I  am  sure  I  shall  read  with  pleasure  ;  I  like 
that  mild,  gentlemanly  man  so  much. 

But  I  am  still  as  far  as  when  I  last  wrote  from  sitting  down 
quietly  to  read  a  pleasant  book.  Everything  is  at  sixes  and  sevens 
still  !  My  treasure  of  a  servant,  who  was  to  '  soothe  my  declining 
years,'  and  enable  me  to  go  to  Scotland  this  year,  is  still  lying  in 
St.  George's  Hospital,  certain  to  lie  there  '  for  some  months,'  and 
not  certain  to  be  fit  for  service,  even  of  the  mildest  form,  when  the 
months  are  over!  Mr.  ,  the  Head  Surgeon,  found  immediate- 
ly that  she  had  got  ulceration  of  tlie  spine,  and  the  rupture  pro- 
ceeded from  that.  He  says  she  '  may  get  over  it  ;  but  it  will  be  a 
tedious  affair.'  I  don't  think  that,  even  if  she  were  cured  nomi- 
nally, I  should  like  to  have  her  for  kitchen  servant  again  ;  I  should 
live  in  perpetual  terror  of  her  hurting  herself  at  every  turn.  Mean- 
while I  have  been  puddling  on  with  my  old  '  going-out-to-cook- 
woman,'  coming  daily  to  cook  the  dinner,  and  teach  the  Welsh 
housemaid,  whom  I  have  decided  to  make  kitchen-woman,  getting 
another  girl  for  housemaid.  A  safe  housemaid  is  so  much  easier 
to  get  here  than  a  cook,  who  doesn't  drink,  nor  steal,  nor  take  the 

'  I  don't  recoUect. 


152  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

house  to  herself!  This  Welsh  girl  >  has,  I  think,  more  the  shaping 
of  a  good  cook  than  of  a  housemaid,  not  being  good  at  needlework, 
and  utterly  incapable  of  reading  the  titles  on  Mr.  C.'s  books,  so 
that  she  can't  bring  him  a  book  when  he  wants  it.  The  girl  I  am 
getting  is  more  accomplished,  whatever  else  ! 
The  present  state  of  affairs  is  wretched;  for  Mr.  C,  being  a  man, 
.  cannot  understand  to  exact  the  least  bit  less  attendance,  when  we 
are  reduced  to  one  servant  again,  than  he  had  accustomed  himself 
to  exact  from  the  two.  So  I  have  all  the  valeting,  and  needle- 
womaning,  and  running  up  and  down  to  the  study  for  books,  &c. 
&c.  &c.  to  do  myself,  besides  having  to  superintend  the  "Welsh  girl, 
and  to  go  to  St.  George's  (two  miles  off)  almost  every  day  in  my 
life,  to  keep  up  the  heart  of  poor  Matilda,  who,  lying  there,  with 
two  issues  in  her  back,  and  nobody  but  myself  coming  after  her, 
and  her  outlooks  of  the  darkest,  naturally  needs  any  cheering  that 
I  can  take  her. 

Mercifully  the  plentiful  rain  keeps  things  cooler  and  fresher  here 
than  is  usual  in  summer;  and  I  am  nothing  like  so  sick  and  nervous 
as  I  was  last  year  at  this  time.  So  I  am  more  able  to  bear  what  is 
laid  on  me — to  bear  amongst  the  rest  the  heavy  disappointment  of 
having  to  give  up  my  visit  to  you,  and  stay  here  at  my  post,  which 
is  a  rather  bothering  one. 

God  bless  you.  It  does  me  good  anyhow  to  think  that,  if  I  could 
have  gone,  the  kind  Doctor  and  you  would  have  been  so  kind  to 
™e.  Your  ever  affectionate 

J.  W.  Carltle. 

LETTER  236. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Mrs.  Stokes's,  21  Wellington  Crescent,  East  CQiflP,  Ramsgate: 

Sunday,  August  4,  1881. 
That  is  the  address,  if  there  be  anything  to  be  addressed  !  For- 
tune favors  the  brave  !  Had  one  talked,  and  thought,  and  cor- 
responded, and  investigated  about  lodgings  for  a  month  before 
starting,  I  doubt  if  we  could  have  made  a  better  business  of  it  than 
we  have  done.  Certainly  in  point  of  situation  there  is  no  better  ia 
Ramsgate  or  in  the  world :  looking  out  over  a  pretty  stripe  of  lawn 

» Irish  In  reality;  a  little,  black,  busy  creature,  who  did  very  well  for  some 
time;  but,  &c.  &c.  (some  mysterious  love-afiEair,  I  think)— and  went  to  New 
Zealand  out  of  sight. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  153 

and  gravel  walk  on  to  the  great  boundless  Ocean  !  You  could  tlirow 
a  stone  from  the  sitting-room  window  into  the  sea  when  the  tide  is 
up  !  Then  there  is  not  the  vestige  of  a  bug  in  our  white  dimity 
beds  !  For  the  rest,  I  cannot  say  it  is  noiseless  !  Geraldine  says 
her  room  looking  on  the  sea  is  perfectly  so  ;  but  I  consider  her  no 
judge,  as  she  sleeps  like  a  top.  However,  the  rooms  looking  on  the 
sea  cannot  but  be  freer  from  noise  than  those  to  the  back,  looking 
on  roofs,  houses,  stables,  streets,  &c. ;  but  the  bedrooms  to  the 
back  are  much  larger,  and  better  aired.  With  no  sensibilities 
except  my  own  to  listen  to  them  with,  I  can  get  used  (I  think)  to 
the  not  extravagant  amount  of  crowing  and  barking,  and  storming 
with  the  wind,  and  even  to  occasional  cat-explosions  on  the  opposite 
roofs  !  If  I  can't,  I  can  exchange  beds  with  Geraldine;  and  there  I 
can  only  have  the  noise  of  the  sea  (considerable  !),  the  possibilities 
of  occasional  carriages  passing  (I  have  none  to  day,  but  it  is  Sun- 
day), and  '  rittle-tippling '  of  Venetian  blinds  !  With  a  great 
diminution  of  room,  however,  and  alarming  increase  of  glare. 
The  people  of  the  house  are  civil  and  honest-looking  and  slow. 
Oh,  my  !  But  we  are  not  come  here,  Geraldine  and  I,  to  be  in  a 
hurry  !  For  us  the  place  will  answer  extremely  well  for  a  week, 
that  we  had  to  engage  it  for,  and  the  sea  air  and  the  '  change '  will 
overbalance  all  the  little  disagreeables,  as  well  as  the  clia-arge, 
which  is  considerable. 

If  my  advice  were  of  any  moment,  I  would  strongly  advise  you 
to  come  one  day  during  the  week,  and  see  the  place  under  our 
auspices,  and  stay  one  night.  I  could  sleep  on  the  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room;  and  you  would  not  mind  any  trifling  noises  with  the 
knowledge  that  it  was  only  for  one  night.  The  mere  journey  and 
a  sight  of  the  sea  and  a  bathe  would  do  you  good. 

I  am  going  to  seek  out  the  Bains  after  church.  I  feel  much  less 
tired  to-day  than  I  have  done  for  weeks,  months  back  ;  and  though 
I  was  awake  half  the  night,  first  feeling  for  bugs,  which  didn't 
come!  and  then  taking  note  of  all  the  different  sounds  far  and  near, 
which  did  come  ! 

Margaret  will  do  everything  very  well  for  you,  if  you  will  only 

tell  her  distinctly  what  you  want ;  I  mean  not  elaborately,  but  in 

few  plain  words. 

Ever  yours, 

Jane  W.  C. 
II.-7* 


154  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS   OF 

LETTER  237. 

T.   Carlyle,  Esq.,  5  Cheyne  Bow. 

Wellington  Crescent,  Ramsgate:  Tuesday,  August  6, 1861. 

•  Very  charming  doesn't  that  look,  with  the  sea  in  front  as  far 
as  eye  can  reach  ?  And  that  seen  (the  East  Cliff),  you  needn't 
wish  to  ever  see  more  of  Ramsgate.  It  is  made  up  of  narrow, 
steep,  confused  streets  like  the  worst  parts  of  Brighton.  The 
shops  look  nasty,  the  people  nasty,  the  smells  are  nasty  !  (spoiled 
shrimps  complicated  with  cesspool  !)  Only  the  East  Cliff  is  clean, 
and  genteel,  and  airy  ;  and  would  be  perfect  as  sea-quarters  if  it 
weren't  for  the  noise  !  which  is  so  extraordinary  as  to  be  almost 
laughable. 

Along  that  still-looking  road  or  street  between  the  houses  and 
gardens  are  passing  and  repassing,  from  early  morning  to  late 
night,  cries  of  prawns,  shrimps,  lollipops — things  one  never  wanted, 
and  will  never  want,  of  the  most  miscellaneous  sort;  and  if  that 
were  all!  But  a  brass  band  plays  all  through  our  breakfast,  and 
repeats  the  performance  often  during  the  day,  and  the  brass  band 
is  succeeded  by  a  band  of  Ethiopians,  and  that  again  by  a  band  of 
female  fiddlers!  and  interspersed  with  these  are  individual  barrel- 
organs,  individual  Scotch  bagpipes,  individual  French  horns!  Oh, 
it  is  '  most  expensive ! '  And  the  night  noises  were  not  to  be  esti- 
mated by  the  first  night!  These  are  so  many  and  frequent  as  to 
form  a  sort  of  mass  of  voice;  perhaps  easier  to  get  some  sleep 
through  than  an  individual  nuisance  of  cock  or  dog.  There  are 
hundreds  of  cocks!  and  they  get  waked  up  at,  say,  one  in  the 
morning  by  some  outburst  of  drunken  song  or  of  cat-wailing!  and 
never  go  to  sleep  again  (these  cocks)  but  for  minutes!  and 
there  are  three  steeple  clocks  that  strike  in  succession,  and  there 
are  doors  and  gates  that  slam,  and  dogs  that  bark  occasionally,  and 
a  saw  mill,  and  a  mews,  &c. — in  short,  everything  you  could  wish 
not  to  hear!  And  I  hear  it  all  and  am  getting  to  sleep  in  hearing 
it!  the  bed  is  so  soft  and  clean,  and  the  room  so  airy;  and  then  I 
think  under  every  shock,  so  triumphantly,  'Crow  away,'  *roar 
away,'  '  bark  away,'  'slam  away;  you  can't  disturb  Mr.  C.  at 
Cheyne  Row,  that  can't  you! '  and  the  thought  is  so  soothing,  I  go 
off  asleep— till  next  thing!     I  might  try  Geraldine's  room  ;  but  she 


>  Written  on  Ramsgate  note-paper,  with  a  print  of  the  harbour,  &c. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  166 

has  now  got  an  adjoining  baby!  Yesterday  we  drove  to  Broad- 
stairs — a  quieter  place,  but  we  saw  no  lodgings  that  were  likely  to 
be  quiet,  except  one  villa  at  six  guineas  a  week,  already  occupied. 

I  sleep  about,  in  intervals  of  the  bands,  on  sofas  during  the  day; 
and  am  less  sick  than  when  I  left  home,  and  we  get  good  enough 
food  very  well  cooked,  and  I  don't  repent  coming,  on  the  whole; 
though  I  hate  being  in  lodgings  in  strange  places. 

I  found  the  Bains;  and  saw  Mrs.  George  '  before  she  left. 

Wednesday,  Aug.  7, 1861. 

I  had  just  cleared  my  toilet-table,  and  carried  my  writing-things 
from  the  sitting-room  to  my  bedroom  window,  where  there  was  no 
worse  noise  for  the  moment  than  carpet  beating  and  the  grinding 
of  passing  carts,  whereas  the  sitting-room  had  become  perfectly 
maddening  with  bagpipes  under  the  windows,  and  piano-practice 
under  the  floor  (a  piano  hired  in  by  '  the  first  floor,  yesterday)! 
All  which  received  an  irritating  finishing  touch  from  the  rapid, 
continuous  scrape,  scraping  of  Geraldine's  pen  (nothing  more  irri- 
tating, as  you  know,  than  to  see  '  others '  perfectly  indifferent  to 
what  is  driving  oneself  wild).  Had  just  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink 
when — a  'yellow  scoundrel,'  the  loudest,  harshest  of  yellow  scoun- 
drels, struck  up  under  my  bedroom  window!  And  here  the  master 
power  of  Babbage  has  not  reached !  Indeed,  noise  seems  to  be  the 
grand  joy  of  life  at  Ramsgate.  If  I  had  come  to  Ramsgate  with 
the  least  idea  of  writing  letters,  or  doing  anything  whatever  with 
my  head,  I  might  go  back  at  once.  But  I  came  to  swallow  down 
as  much  sea  air  as  possible,  and  that  end  is  attained  without 
fatigue;  for  lying  on  the  sofa  with  our  three  windows  wide  open 
on  the  sea,  we  are  as  well  aired  as  if  we  were  sailing  on  it;  and  the 
bedroom  is  full  of  sea  air  all  night  too.  It  is  certainly  doing  me 
good,  though  I  can't  ever  get  slept  many  minutes  together  for  the 
noises.  I  get  up  hungrj^  for  breakfast,  and  am  hungry  again  for 
dinner — and  a  fowl  does  not  serve  Geraldine  and  me  two  days! !  I 
do  hope  you  are  getting  decently  fed.  It  won't  be  for  want  of  as- 
siduous will  on  Margaret's  part  if  things  are  not  as  you  like  them. 

We  called  for  the  Bains  last  night  and  invited  them  to  tea  to- 
night, which  they  thankfully  accepted.  They  seem  entirely  oc- 
cupied in  studying  their  mutual  health.  Indeed,  what  else  would 
any  mortal  stay  here  for!  Mrs.  Bain  is  quite  the  female  of  that 
male, — clear  and  clever,  and  cold  and  dry  as  tinder!    They  have 

'  Welsh ;  her  uncle's  wife. 


156  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

'  the  only  quiet  house  in  Ramsgate.'  Mrs.  Bain  is  troubled  with 
nothing  but  the  bleating  of  sheep  to  the  back;  after  to-day,  how- 
ever, there  will  be  crying  the  babies  in  the  house,  and  it  is  nothing 
like  so  airy  a  situation  as  ours.  What  a  mercy  you  did  not  try 
Ramsgate ! 

My  compliments  to  the  maids,  and  say  I  hope  to  find  them 
models  of  virtue  and  activity  when  I  come  on  Saturday.  Geral- 
dine  is  clear  for  staying  another  week ;  but  I  had  better  have  gone 
to  Scotland  than  that. 

Yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  238. 
Mrs.  Bussell,  Holm  Sill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Tuesday,  Aug.  30, 1861. 

Darling!  I  want  to  hear  about  you;  and  that  is  lucky  for  you,  if 
you  be  at  all  wanting  to  hear  about  me !  For  I'll  be  hanged  if  mere 
unassisted  sense  of  duty,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  (^puld  nerve  me  to 
sit  down  and  write  a  letter  in  these  days,  when  it  takes  pretty  well 
all  the  sense  and  strength  I  have  left  to  keep  myself  soul  and  body 
together,  doing  the  thing  forced  into  my  hands  to  do,  and  answer- 
ing when  I  am  spoken  to.  A  nice  woman  I  am!  But  I  know  you 
have  been  in  such  depths  yourself  occasionally,  and  will  have  sym- 
pathy with  me,  instead  of  being  contemptuous  or  angry,  as  your 
strong-minded,  able-bodied  women  would  be;  and  accordingly 
strong-minded,  able-bodied  women  are  my  aversion,  and  I  run  out 
of  the  road  of  one  as  I  would  from  a  mad  cow.  The  fact  is,  had 
there  been  nobody  in  the  world  to  consider  except  myself,  I  ought 
to  have  '  carried  out '  that  project  I  had  set  my  heart  on  of  streaming 
off  by  myself  to  Holm  Hill,  and  taking  a  life-bath,  as  it  were,  in 
ray  quasi-natural  air,  in  the  scene  of  old  affections,  not  all  past  and 
gone,  but  some  still  there  as  alive  and  warm,  thank  God,  as  ever! 
and  only  the  dearer  for  being  mixed  up  with  those  that  are  dead 
and  gone. 

Ah,  my  dear,  your  kindness  goes  to  my  heart,  and  makes  me 
like  to  cry,  because  I  cannot  do  as  you  bid  me.  My  servants  are 
pretty  well  got  into  the  routine  of  the  house  now,  and  if  Mr.  C. 
were  like  other  men,  he  might  be  left  to  their  care  for  two  or 
three  weeks,  without  fear  of  consequences.  But  he  is  much  more 
like  a  spoiled  baby  than  like  other  men.  I  tried  him  alone  for  a 
few  days,  when  I  was  afraid  of  falling  seriously  ill,  unless  I  had 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  157 

change  of  air.  Three  weeks  ago  I  went  with  Geraldine  Jewsbury 
to  Ramsgate,  one  of  the  most  accessible  sea-side  places,  where  I 
was  within  call,  as  it  were,  if  anything  went  wrong  at  home.  But 
the  letter  that  came  from  him  every  morning  was  like  the  letter  of 
a  Babe  in  the  Wood,  who  would  be  found  buried  with  dead  leaves 
by  the  robins  if  I  didn't  look  to  it.  So,  even  if  Ramsgate  hadn't 
been  the  horridest,  noisiest  place,  where  I  knew  nobody,  and  had 
nothing  to  do  except  swallow  sea  air  (the  best  of  sea  air  indeed),  I 
couldn't  have  got  stayed  there  long  enough  to  make  it  worth  the 
bother  of  going.  I  had  thought,  in  going  there,  that  if  he  got  on 
well  enough  by  himself  for  the  few  days,  I  might  take  two  or  three 
weeks  later,  and  realise  my  heart's  wish  after  all.  But  I  found  him 
so  out  of  sorts  on  my  return  that  I  gave  it  up,  with  inward  protest 
and  appeal  to  posterity. 

Again  a  glimmer  of  hope  arose.  Lady  Sandwich  had  taken  a 
villa  on  the  edge  of  Windsor  Forest  for  a  month,  and  invited  us  to 
go  with  her  there.  Mr.  C.  is  very  fond  of  that  old  lady,  partly  for 
her  own  sake,  and  partly  for  the  late  Lady  Ashburton's  (her 
daughter).  He  can  take  his  horse  with  him  there,  and  his  books, 
and  if  he  miss  his  sleep  one  night  he  can  come  straight  home  the 
next.  So,  on  the  whole,  after  much  pressing,  he  consented  to  go. 
And  the  idea  came  to  me,  if  he  were  all  right  there,  might  not  I 
slip  away  meanwhile  to  you.  Before  however  it  had  been  com- 
municated, he  said  to  me  one  day:  '  What  a  poor,  shivering,  ner- 
vous wretch  I  am  grown!  I  declare  if  you  were  not  to  be  there  to 
take  care  of  me,  and  keep  all  disturbance  off  me,  nothing  would  in- 
duce me  to  go  to  that  place  of  Lady  Sandwich's,  though  I  daresay 
it  is  very  necessary  for  me  to  go  somewhere.'  Humph!  very  flat- 
tering, but  very  inconvenient.  And  one  can't  console  oneself  at 
my  age  for  a  present  disappointment  with  looking  forward  to  next 
year,  one  is  no  longer  so  sure  of  one's  next  year. 

One  thing  I  can  do,  and  you  can  do — we  can  write  oftener.  It 
is  a  deal  nicer  to  speak  face  to  face  from  heart  to  heart.  But 
we  might  make  our  correspondence  a  better  thing  than  it  is,  if 
we  prevented  the  need  of  beginning  our  letters  so  often  with  an 
apology  for  silence. 

Thanks  for  all  your  news.  Every  little  detail  about  Thorn- 
hill  people  and  things  is  interesting  to  me.  And,  oh,  many,  many 
thanks  for  your  kind  messages  to  us  all!  God  bless  you,  dear,  and 
love  to  the  Doctor.  Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carlylb. 


168  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


LETTER  239. 

The  good  old  dowager  Lady  Sandwich  had  this  autumn  engaged 
us  to  go  out  with  her  to  a  pretty  little  lodge  she  had  hired  for  a 
while  in  Windsor  Forest,  to  rusticate  there.  It  struck  us  after- 
wards, she  had  felt  that  this  was  likely  to  be  her  last  autumn  in 
this  world,  and  that  we,  now  among  the  dearest  left  to  her,  ought 
to  be  there.  She  was  a  brave,  airy,  affectionate,  and  bright  kind 
of  creature;  and  under  her  Irish  gaieties  and  fantasticalities  con- 
cealed an  honest  generosity  of  heart,  and  a  clear  discernment,  and 
a  very  firm  determination  in  regard  to  all  practical  or  essential 
matters.  "We  willingly  engaged,  went  punctually,  and  stayed,  I 
think,  some  twelve  or  more  days,  which,  except  for  my  own  con- 
tinual state  of  worn-out  nerves,  &c.,  were  altogether  graceful, 
touching,  and  even  pleasant.  I  rode  nut,  and  rode  back  (my  Jean- 
nie  by  railway  both  times).  Windsor  Forest  sounded  something 
Arcadian  when  I  started,  but,  alas!  I  found  all  that  a  completely 
changed  matter  since  the  days  of  Pope  and  his  sylvan  eclogues; 
and  the  real  name  of  it  now  to  be  Windsor  Cockneydom  unchained. 
The  ride  out  was  nowliere  pleasant,  in  parts  disgusting;  the  ride 
back  I  undertook  merely  because  oljliged.  During  my  stay  I  rode 
daily  a  great  deal;  but  except  within  the  park,  where  was  a 
gloomy  kind  of  solitude,  very  gloomy  always  to  me,  I  had  nowhere 
any  satisfaction  in  the  exercise,  nor  did  Fritz  seem  to  have.  Alas! 
both  he  and  I  were  getting  very  sick  of  riding;  and  one  of  us  was 
laden  for  a  long  while  past  and  to  come  far  beyond  his  strength 
and  years.  It  seems  b}'  this  letter  I  was  at  times  a  very  bad  boy; 
and,  alas!  my  repentant  memory  answers  too  clearly  Yes.  The 
lumbago,  indeed,  I  have  entirely  forgotten,  but  I  remember  nights 
sleepless,  and  long  walks,  the  mornings  after  which  were  cou- 
rageous rather  than  victorious!  I  remember  the  old  lady's  stately 
and  courteous  appearance  at  dinner,  affecting  to  me,  and  strange, 
almost  painful.  This  little  scene  even  to  the  very  name  had  van- 
ished from  me,  and  Harewood  Lodge,  when  I  read  it  here,  reads  a 
whole  series  of  things  to  me ;  things  sad — now  sad  as  death  itself, 
but  good  too,  perhaps,  almost  great. 

Miss  Barnes,  King's  Road,  Chelsea. 

Harewood  Lodge,  Berks:  Sept.  22,  1861. 
Carina!  Oh,  Carina!  'Did  you  ever?'  '  No,  you  never!'  It 
has  been  an  enchantment — a  bad  spell!  the  '  quelque  chose  plus  fort 
qtie  mot'  of  French  criminals!  I  don't  think  a  day  has  passed 
since  I  got  your  letter — certainly  not  a  day  has  passed  since  I  came 
here — that  I  haven't  thought  of  you;  and  meant  to  write  to  you: 
only  I  never  did  it!  And  why?  Were  I  to  assign  the  only  reason 
which  occurs  to  me  for  the  moment,  it  would  seem  incredible  to 
your  well-regulated  mind.      You  could  never    conceive  how  a 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  159 

woman  'born  of  respectable  parents,  and  having  enjoyed  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  liberal  education '  (like  Judge  somebody's  malefactor, 
■who,  '  instead  of  which,  had  gone  about  the  country  stealing  tur- 
keys! '),  should  be  withheld  from  doing  a  thing  by  just  the  feeling 
that  she  ought  to  !  Although  if  she  had  ought  not  to  she  would 
have  done  it  at  the  first  opportunity!  No!  You  have  no  belief  in 
such  a  make  of  a  woman,  you!  You  are  too  good  for  believing  in 
her!  And  one  can  t  do  better  than  believe  all  women  born  to  a 
sense  of  duty  '  as  the  sparks  fly  upwards '  as  long  as  one  can. 

For  the  rest,  I  should  have  enjoyed  this  beautiful  place  exces- 
sively if  Eve  hadn't  eaten  that  unfortunate  apple,  a  great  many 
years  ago;  in  result  of  which  Uiere  has,  ever  since,  been  always  a 
something  to  prevent  one's  feeling  oneself  in  Paradise!  The 
'  something'  of  the  present  occasion  came  in  the  form  of  lumbago! 
not  into  my  own  back,  but  into  Mr.  C.'s;  which  made  the  difference 
so  far  as  the  whole  comfort  of  my  life  was  concerned !  For  it  was 
the  very  first  day  of  being  here  that  Mr.  C.  saw  fit  to  spread  his 
pocket-handkerchief  on  the  grass,  just  after  a  heavy  shower,  and 
sit  down  on  it!  for  an  hour  and  more  in  spite  of  all  my  remon- 
strances! !  The  lumbago  following  in  the  course  of  nature,  there 
hasn't  been  a  day  that  I  felt  sure  of  staying  over  the  next,  and  of 
not  being  snatched  away  like  Proserpine;  as  I  was  from  the  Grange 
last  winter!  For  what  avail  the  'beauties  of  nature,'  the  'ease 
with  dignity '  of  a  great  house,  even  the  Hero  Worship  accorded 
one,  against  the  lumbago?  Nothing,  it  would  seem!  less  than  noth- 
ing! Lumbago,  my  dear,  it  is  good  that  you  should  know  in  time, 
admits  of  but  one  consolation — of  but  one  happiness!  viz. :  '  perfect 
liberty  to  be  as  ugly  and  stupid  and  disagreeable  as  ever  one  likes!' 
And  that  consolation,  that  happiness,  that  liberty  reserves  itself  for 
the  domestic  hearth!  As  you  will  find  when  you  are  married,  I 
daresay.  And  so,  all  the  ten  days  we  have  been  here,  it  has  been  a 
straining  on  Mr.  C.'s  part  to  tear  his  way  through  the  social  ameni- 
ties back  to  Chelsea;  while  I  have  spent  all  the  time  I  might  have 
been  enjoying  mj'self  in  expecting  to  be  snatched  away! 

To-morrow  we  go  finally  and  positively,  though  the  lumbago  is 
almost  disappeared,  and  we  were  to  have  stayed  at  least  a  fortnight. 
Where  are  you,  then?  If  you  are  returned  to  'the  paternal  roof,' 
no  need  almost  of  this  letter.  But  I  dare  say  you  are  gadding  about 
on  the  face  of  the  earth ;  '  too  happy  in  not  knowing  your  happiness ' 
of  having  a  paternal  roof  to  stay  under!  If  your  father  would  take 
BXe  home  for  his  daughter,  and  pet  me  as  he  does  you.  would  I  go 


160  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

dancing  off  to  all  points  of  the  compass  as  you  do?  No,  indeed. 
God  bless  you,  anyhow!  If  you  are  returned,  this  letter  will  be 
worth  while,  as  enabling  me  to  look  you  in  the  face  more  or  less. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Welsh  Cabltle. 

LETTER  240. 

January  1,  1863. — 'First  foot,'  perhaps  explained  already,  is  a 
Scotch  superstition  about  good  or  ill  hick  for  the  whole  year  being 
omened  by  your  liking  or  otherwise  of  the  first  person  that  accosts 
you  on  New  Year's  morning.  She  well  knew  this  to  be  an  idle 
babble;  but  nevertheless  it  had  got  hold  of  her  fancy  in  a  sort, 
and  was  of  some  real  importance  to  her,  as  other  such  old  super- 
stitions were.  Thus  I  have  seen  her,  if  anybody  made  or  received 
a  present  of  a  knife,  insist  on  a  penny  being  given  for  it,  that  so  it 
might  become  '  purchase,'  and  not  cut  the  friendship  in  two.  I 
used  to  laugh  at  these  practices,  but  found  them  beautiful  withal; 
how  much  more  amiable  than  strong-mindedness  (which  has  needed 
only  deduction  of  fine  qualities)  in  regard  to  such  things! — T.  C. 

J.  O.  Cooke,  Esq. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  January  1, 1862. 
Ach  Gott! 
My  dear  Friend, — What  an  adorable  little  proceeding  on  your 
part!  I  declare  I  can't  remember  when  I  have  been  as  pleased. 
Not  only  a  'good  first  foot,'  but  salvation  from  any  possibility  of  a 
'bad  first  foot,'  with  which  my  highly  imaginative  Scotch  mind 
(imaginative  on  the  reverse  side  of  things  in  my  present  state  of 
physical  weakness)  had  been  worry  itself  as  New  Year's  Day  drew 
near.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears  when  little  Margaret  glided 
to  my  bedside  and  said,  '  Mr.  Cooke,  ma'am,  with  this  letter  and 
beautiful  egg-cup  (!)  for  you;  but  he  wouldn't  come  up,  as  you 
were  in  bed!'  That,  too,  was  most  considerate  of  Mr,  Cooke!  The 
'  egg-cup '  ravished  my  senses  with  its  beauty  and  perfect  adaptation 
to  my  main  passion.  I  think  j'ou  must  have  had  it  made  on  pur- 
pose for  me,  it  feels  already  so  much  a  part  of  myself.  And  how 
early  you  must  have  risen  to  be  here  at  that  hour!  Dressed,  per- 
haps, by  candle-light!  Good  God!  all  that  for  me!  Well,  I  am 
grateful,  and  won't  forget  this.  A  talismanic  remembrance  to 
stand  between  my  faith  in  your  kindness  for  me  and  any  '  babbles » 
(my  grandfatlier's  word)  that  may  ever  attempt,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  to  shake  it.  And  so  God  bless  you!  and  believe 
me  Yours  affection  ately, 

Jane  Welsh  Caklyle. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  161 

LETTER  341. 
Miss  Barnes,  King's  Road,  Chelsea. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  January  34,  1862. 

Oh,  you  agonising  little  girl!  How  could  you  come  down  upon 
me  iu  that  slap-dash  way,  demand  of  poor,  weak,  shivery  me  a 
positive  '  yes '  or  '  no  '  as  if  with  a  loaded  pistol  at  my  head?  How 
can  I  tell  what  I  shall  be  up  to  on  the  18th?  After  such  a  three 
months  of  illness,  and  relapses,  how  can  I  even  guess?  If  I  am 
alive,  and  able  to  stand  on  my  hind  legs,  and  to  look  like  a  joyful 
occasion,  I  shall  be  only  too  happy  to  attend  that  solemnity.  But 
in  my  actual  state  it  would  be  a  tempting  of  Providence  to  suppress 
the  ifm  my  acceptance  of  your  'amiable  invitation.' 

As  for  Mr.  C. — my  dear,  I  must  confide  to  you  a  small  domestic 
passage.  I  told  him  what  your  father  had  said  weeks  ago,  and  he 
expressed  himself  as  terrified — as  was  to  be  expected — at  the  idea 
of  his  being  included  in  anything  joyful!  and  I  thought  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  it,  three  or  four  days  after,  when  he  came  into  my 
room  with  evidentlj^  something  on  his  mind,  and  said,  '  My  dear, 
there  is  a  small  favour  I  want  from  you.  I  want  j^ou  to  not  let  me 
be  asked  to  Miss  Barnes's  marriage,  for  it  would  be  a  real  vexation 
to  me  to  refuse  that  bonnie  wee  lassie  what  she  asked,  and  to  her 
marriage  I  could  not  go;  it  would  be  tlie  ruin  of  me  for  three 
weeks! '  And  that  is  no  exaggeration,  I  can  saj',  who  know  his 
ways  better  than  anyone  else.  He  added  that,  '  tlie  rational  thing 
to  be  done,'  was,  that  you  should  '  bring  your  husband,  when  you 
had  married  him,  to  spend  an  evening  with  him  (Mr.  C.)  in  his  own 
house,  among  quiet  things  '  (me  and  the  cat?). 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  242. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Feb.  2«,  1862. 
Oh,  my  dear,  what  a  horrid  thing! '     It  still  makes  my  flesh  creep 
all  over  whenever  I  think  of  it !  and  I  think  of  it  a  great  deal  oftener 
than  tliere   is  occasion  for,  since,  thank  God,  he  is  now  on  foot 

>  Some  accident  which  had  befallen  Dr.  Russell. 


163  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

again!  But  I  have  seen  that  safe!  I  can  appreciate  to  the  full 
the  crash  of  its  lid,  smack  down  on  human  fingers!  Mercy!  what 
a  piece  of  capital  good  stuff  the  Doctor  must  have  been  made  of 
originally,  that  his  fingers  should  have  stuck  together  through  such 
an  accident,  instead  of  being  all  pounded  into  mush !  That  is  not 
what  surprises  me  most,  however,  in  the  business.  What  surprises 
me  most  is,  that  the  Doctor  being  a  doctor,  and  a  good,  skilful  one, 
should  have  gone  about  after,  braving  such  a  hurt,  as  though  he 
had  never  in  his  life  heard  of  lockjaw,  or  gangrene,  or  fever!  I 
don't  wonder  that  you  were  terrified.  T  wonder  rather  that  you 
are  not,  now  when  your  nursing  is  no  more  needed,  in  a  brain  fever 
yourself.  The  longer  I  live,  the  more  I  am  certified  that  men,  in 
all  that  relates  to  their  own  health,  have  not  common  sense! 
whether  it  be  their  pride,  or  their  impatience,  or  their  obstinacy,  or 
their  ingrained  spirit  of  contradiction,  that  stupefies  and  misleads 
them,  the  result  is  always  a  certain  amount  of  idiocy,  or  distraction 
in  their  dealings  with  their  own  bodies!  I  am  not  generalising  from 
my  own  husband.  I  know  that  he  is  a  quite  extravagant  example 
of  that  want  of  common  sense  in  bodily  matters  which  I  complain 
of.  Few  men  (even)  are  so  lost  to  themselves  as  to  dry  their  soaked 
trowsers  on  their  legs!  (as  he  does)  or  swallow  five  gi-ains  of  mer- 
cury in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  then  walk  or  ride  three  hours 
under  a  plunge  of  rain!  (as  he  does)  &c.  &c.  But  men  generally, 
all  of  them  I  have  ever  had  to  do  with — even  your  sensible  husband 
included,  you  see — drive  the  poor  women,  who  care  for  them,  to 
despair,  either  by  their  wild  impatience  of  bodily  suffering,  and  the 
exaggerated  moan  they  make  over  it,  or  else  by  their  reckless  defiance 
of  it,  and  neglect  of  every  dictate  of  prudence!  There!  You  may 
tell  the  Doctor  what  I  say!  It  won't  do  him  the  slightest  good 
against  next  time;  but  it  is  well  he  should  know  what  one  thinks  of 
him — that  one  does  not  approve  of  such  costly  heroism  at  all ! 

I  have  nothing  new  to  tell  you  which  is  luckj';  as  the  things  that 
have  happened  this  long  time  back  have  been  of  a  disastrous  sort. 

I  go  out  now  occasionally  for  a  drive — walking  tires  me  too  mucli. 
I  have  even  been  twice  out  at  dinner  last  week,  and  was  at  a  wedding 
besides!  The  two  dinners  were  of  the  quietest:  at  the  one  (Miss 
Baring's),  nobody  but  Lord  Ashburton,  wlio  had  come  up  from  the 
Grange  for  a  consultation ;  at  the  other  (Lady  Sandwich's),  nobody 
but  the  Marchioness  of  Lothian,  who,  having  lived  thirty  years  in 
Scotland,  is  as  good  as  a  Scotchwoman.     But  the  wedding '  was  an 

*  Barnes's. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  163 

immense  affair!  It  was  my  doctor's  little  daugliter,  wlio  was  being 
married,  after  a  three  years'  engagement;  and  as  soon  as  she  was 
engaged,  she  had  made  me  promise  to  attend  her  wedding.  I  had 
rather  wished  to  see  a  marriage  performed  in  a  church  with  all  the 
forms,  the  eight  bridesmaids,  &c.  &c.  But  I  had  renounced  all 
idea  of  going  to  the  church,  for  fear  of  being  laid  up  with  a  fresh 
cold;  and  meant  to  attend  only  the  breakfast  party  after,  in  which  I 
took  less  interest.  But  imagine  how  good  the  people  here  are  to 
me.  Our  rector,  in  whose  church  (St.  Luke's)  the  marriage  was  to 
take  place,  being  told  by  his  wife  I  wished  to  go,  but  durstn't  for 
fear  of  the  coldness  of  the  church,  ordered  the  fires  to  be  kept  up 
from  Sundaj^  over  into  Tuesday  morning!  besides  a  rousing  fire  in 
the  vestry,  where  I  sat  at  my  ease  till  the  moment  the  ceremony 
began!  I  was  much  pressed  afterwards  to  acknowledge  how 
superior  the  English  way  of  marrying  was  to  the  Scotch,  and  asked 
how  I  had  liked  it.  I  said  my  feelings  were  very  mixed.  '  Mixed? ' 
the  rector  asked,  'mixed  of  what?'  'Well,' I  said,  '  it  looked  to 
me  something  betwixt  a  religious  ceremony  and  a — pantomime!' 
So  it  is.     There  were  forty-four  people  at  the  breakfast! 

Your  ever  affectionate 

J.  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  243. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  June  5, 1862. 

Dearest  Mary, — I  cannot  count  the  letters  I  have  written  to  you 
in  my  head  within  the  last  six  weeks,  they  have  been  so  many;  I 
have  written  them  mostly  before  getting  out  of  bed  in  the  morning, 
or  while  lying  awake  at  night.  But  in  the  day-time,  with  pen  and 
ink  at  hand,  I  have  been  always,  always,  alwaj's  too  sick  or  too 
bothered  to  put  them  on  paper,  have  indeed  been  writing  to  nobody, 
if  that  be  any  excuse  for  not  writing  to  you.  The  beginning  of 
warm  weather  is  as  trying  for  me,  in  a  different  way,  as  winter 
was,  and  so  many  sad  things  have  happened. 

Just  when  the  freshness  of  one  sorrow  was  wearing  off,  there 
has  come  another.  First  Elizabeth  Pepoli,  then  Lady  Sandwich, 
then   Mrs.   Twisleton:'    the    three  people   in    all  London  whose 


'  A  very  beautiful  and  clever  little  Boston  lady,  wife  of  Hon.  Edward 
Twisleton,  and  much  about  us  for  the  six  or  seven  j'ears  she  lived  here.  I 
well  remember  her  affecting  funeral  (old  Fiennes  Castle,  in  Oxfordshire),  and 
my  ride  thither  with  Browning,  &c. 


164  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

friendship  I  had  most  dependence  on.  Nobody  will  believe  the 
loss  Lady  Sandwich  is  to  us.  They  say  '  a  woman  of  eighty !  that 
is  not  to  be  regretted.'  But  her  intimate  friends  know  that  this 
woman  of  eighty  was  the  most  charming  companion  and  the  loyal- 
est,  warmest  friend ;  was  tlie  only  person  in  London  or  in  the  world 
that  Mr.  C.  went  regularly  to  see.  Twice  a  week  he  used  to  call 
for  her;  and  now  his  horse  makes  for  her  house  whenever  he  gets 
into  the  region  of  Grosvenor  Square,  and  does  not  see  or  under- 
stand the  escutcheon  that  turns  me  sick  as  I  drive  past.  Dear  little 
Mrs.  Twisleton,  so  young,  and  beautiful,  and  clever,  so  admired  in 
society  and  adored  at  home,  is  a  loss  that  everyone  can  appreciate! 
And  the  strong  affection  she  testified  for  me,  through  her  long  ter- 
rible illness,  has  made  her  death  a  keener  grief  than  I  thought  it 
would  be. 

I  should  have  been  thankful  to  be  away  from  here — anywhere — 
at  the  bottom  of  a  coal-pit,  to  think  over  this  in  quiet,  safe  from 
the  breaking  in  of  all  the  idlers  '  come  up '  to  that  great  vulgar 
show  of  an  'Exhibition,' and  safe  from  the  endless  weary  chatter 
about  it.  Nothing  could  keep  me  here  for  an  hour  but  Mr.  C.'s 
determination  to  stay; — since  at  the  top  of  the  house  he  is  safe 
enough  from  tiresome  interruptions,  simply  refusing  to  see  any- 
body, which,  alas!  makes  it  all  the  more  needful  for  me  to  be  civil. 
Here  he  will  stay  and  work  on;  (what  an  idea  you  have  all  got  in 
your  heads,  that,  having  published  a  third  volume  he  must  be  at 
ease  in  Zion,  when  two  more  volumes  are  to  come,  and  one  wholly 
unwritten;)  and  to  leave  him  in  the  present  state  of  things  is  what 
I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  to.  If  I  go  on  in  this  way,  however,  I 
shall  die,  and  just  before  it  comes  to  that  extremity  I  shall  probably 
muster  the  necessary  resolution. 

Mr.  C.'s  comfort  under  the  confusion  of  the  Exhibition  is  that 
'It  is  to  be  hoped  it  will  end  in  total  bankruptcy.'  They  say  the 
guarantees  will  be  called  on  to  pay  twenty-five  per  cent. 

Kindest  love  to  the  doctor;  a  hearty  kiss  to  yourself. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jake  W.  Caklyle. 


LETTER  244. 

We  were  with  the  Ashburtons,  she  first,  for  a  week  or  more,  then 
both  of  us  for  perhaps  a  week  longer.  Ay  de  mi!  (October  29, 
1869.) 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  165 


To  Thomas  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

West  Cliff  Hotel:  Wednesday,  July  8, 1862. 

Thanks,  dear!  especially  for  telling  me  about  Mrs.  Forster.  I 
had  been  so  vexed  at  myself  for  not  begging  you  to  go  again  and 
send  me  word. 

Lady  A.  came  and  sat  awhile  in  my  room  last  night,  and,  speak- 
ing of  Miss  Bromley's  departure,  I  took  occasion  to  say  that,  '  As 
she  and  I  came  on  the  same  day,  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  to  have  also 
gone  on  the  same  day.'  The  answer  to  which  was  a  very  cordial 
'  Nonsense,  my  dear  friend ! '  I  was  expected  to  stay  as  long  as 
they  did,  '  or  ''(when  I  shook  my  head  at  that) '  as  long  at  all  events 
as  I  could  possibly  make  it  convenient.'  There  was  no  doubt 
whatever  about  her  present  wish  being  to  that  effect.  And  then 
came  up  the  old  question  as  a  new  one,  '  Did  I  think  he  would 
come?  It  would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  Bingham,  now  that  he  could 
move  about.'  I  said,  you  might  perhaps  be  persuaded  to  come  for 
a  very  short  visit,  but,  &c.  &c.  That  was  it !  A  short  visit  was 
evidently  what  she  wanted,  and  she  does  want  that;  but  she  did 
not  see  her  way  through  a  long  one,  in  the  circumstances  I  could 
see,  and  I  don't  wonder.  She  would  write  herself  to-day,  and 
urge  you  to  come  on  Saturday  and  stay  till  Monday — '  You  might 
surely  do  that ! ' 

Now  that  is  just  what  you  must  do.  Even  two  days  of  sea  will 
benefit  you;  and  it  can  be  had  at  little  sacritice  of  anything.  You 
don't  need  to  trouble  about  clothes;  what  you  could  bring  in  your 
carpet-bag  would  be  enough;  there  is  no  elaborate  dressing  for 
dinner  here;  and  the  tide  is  convenient,  and  there  is  a  horse!  And 
Lady  A.  says  she  can  give  you  '  a  perfectly  quiet  room: ' — indeed, 
mine  is  quiet  as  the  grave  from  outside  noises;  not  a  cock  nor  a 
dog  in  all  Folkestone  I  think !  And  the  cookery,  which  is  objected 
to  as  all  too  English,  would  suit  you :— constant  loins  of  roast  mut- 
ton, and  constant  boiled  chickens!  Now  pray  take  no  counsel  with 
flesh  and  blood,  but  come  straight  off  on  Saturday  morning,  ac- 
cording to  the  invitation  that  will  reach  you  (I  expect)  along  with 
this.     And  in  all  likelihood  we  will  go  home  together  on  Monday. 

If  you  don't  come,  I  will  stay  away  as  long  as  ever  they  will 
keep  me,  just  to  spite  you! 

Look  up  in  your  topographical  book  for  Saltwood  Castle.  Lady 
A.  asked,  when  we  were  there  to-day,  if  I  thought  you  would  be 


166  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

able  to  tell  us  about  it;  and  I  said,   'Of  course  you  would:'  Salt- 
wood  Castle,  near  Folkestone. 

There  is  here  too  a  review  of  '  Frederick '  in  the  '  Cornbill,' 
which  would  amuse  you!  Adoring  your  genius,  but  absolutely 
horror-struck  at  your  'scorn,'  which  is  'become  normal.'  How 
you  dare  to  utter  such  blasphemy  against  Messrs.  Leibnitz  and 
Maupertius  !  !  I  could  not  help  bursting  out  laughing  at  the  man's 
sacred  horror,  as  if  he  had  been  speaking  of  Milton's  Devil! 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 

Horrible  paper!    I  have  no  other. 


LETTER  345. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  July  20, 1868. 

Dearest  Mary, — When  you  wrote  last  you  were  going  somewhere 
— to  see  your  cousin,  I  think.  Is  that  visit  paid?  and  what  other 
visits  have  you  to  pay?  And  how  are  you?  I  fear  but  poorly  from 
your  late  letters;  but  are  you  well  enough  to  feel  any  pleasure  in — 
in — in  seeing  me  if  I  should  come? 

Look  here!  I  am  not  sure  about  it!  But  Mr.  C.  said  something 
this  morning  that  I  am  determined  to  view  as  permission  for  me 
to  go  away  by  myself — where  I  please  and  when  I  please  for  a  very 
little  while.  We  had  got  into  words  about  an  invitation  to  the 
Marquis  of  Lothian's,  in  Norfolk.  I  had  written  a  refusal  by  his 
(Mr.  C.'s)  desire,  and  Lady  Lothian  had  written  to  me  a  second 
letter,  holding  out  as  inducements  for  altering  his  mind  that  there 
was  a  wonderfully  fine  library  at  Blickling  Park,  and  that  Lord 
Lothian's  health  prevented  company;  and  Mr.  C,  tempted  a  little 
by  the  library  and  the  no  company,  had  suggested  I  might  write 
that  if  the  weather  got  unbearable !  and  if  he  got  to  a  place  in  his 
work  where  he  could  gather  up  some  papers  and  take  them  with 
him!  and  if — if — if  ever  so  many  things,  he  might  perhaps — that  is, 
we  might  perhaps — come  '  by  and  by '  !  !  !  I  had  said  '  by  no 
means.  I  have  written  a  refusal  by  your  desire;  I  shall  gladly  now 
write  an  acceptance  by  your  desire;  but  neither  yes  nor  no,  or  yes 
and  no  both  in  one,  I  can't  and  won't  write ;  you  must  do  that  sort 
of  thing  yourself! '  And  then  he  told  me,  '  Since  I  was  so  im- 
patient about  it,'  I  had  better  go  by  myself.     To  which  I  answered 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  167 

that  it  wouldn't  be  there  that  I  would  go  by  myself,  nor  to  the 
Trevelyans,  nor  the  Davenport  Bronileys;  but  to  Scotland  to  Mrs. 
RussoU.  '  Then  go  to  Mrs.  Russell — pack  yourself  up  and  be  off 
as  soon  as  you  like.' 

Now  it  wasn't  a  very  gracious  permission,  still  it  was  a  permission 
— at  least  I  choose  to  regard  it  as  such ;  and  if  I  had  been  quite  sure 
how  you  were  situated — whether  you  were  at  home,  without  other 
visitor,  well  enough  to  be  bothered  with  rae,  &c.  &c.,  I  should  have 
said  on  the  spot,  '  Thanks!  I  will  go  then  on  such  a  day! ' 

I  know  to  my  sorrow  that,  if  I  should  be  long  absent,  things 
would  go  to  sixes  and  sevens,  and  I  should  find  mischievous  habits 
acquired  in  the  kitchen  department,  which  it  would  take  months  to 
reform — if  ever.  But  my  week  at  Folkestone  with  the  Ashburtons 
passed  off  with  impunity; — and  their  (the  servants')  moralities  might 
surely  hold  out  for  a  fortnight  or  so;  which  would  give  plenty  of 
time  to  see  you,  and  look  about  on  the  dear  old  places,  and  go  round 
by  Edinburgh  for  a  kiss  of  old  Betty. 

You  see  how  it  is,  however,  for  I  have  told  you  exactly  what 
passed; — and  you  see  it  is  not  a  very  settled  question.  Without 
further  speech  with  Mr.  C.  I  can't  just  say,  '  I  am  coming  if  you 
"will  have  me!'  But  if  you  say  you  will  have  me,  can  have  me 
soon,  without  inconvenience ;  then  I  will  myself  open  the  further 
speech  and  ascertain  if  he  means  to  stand  to  his  word,  and  look 
favourably  on  my  going  for  a  week  or  two. 

I  say  forgive  me  coming  to  you,  year  after  year,  with  these  in- 
decisions. Next  to  being  undecided  oneself  the  greatest  misery  is 
to  be  mixed  up  with  undecided  people.  I  myself  know  always 
might}^  well  what  I  want;  and  buts  and  ifs  and  possiblys  are  not 
words  in  my  natural  vocabulary,  for  all  so  often  as  I  am  obliged  to 
use  them.  If  I  plague  you  with  my  uncertainties,  believe  me  I 
plague  myself  quite  as  much  or  more. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J,  Carlyle. 

LETTER  246. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Saturday,  Aug.  2,  1862. 

Dearest  Mary, — Your  letter  of  this  morning  had  the  same  effect 

that  a  glass  of  port  wine,  administered  in  my  babyhood, was  recorded 

to  have  had  on  a  less  dignified  organ :  '  Port  wine  '  (I  was  said  to  have 

said  to  my  mother,  with  the  suddenness  of  Balaam's  ass)  '  mak's 


168  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

inside  a'  cozy!'  So  indeed  did  your  cordial  letter  mak'  heart  a' 
cozy.  On  the  strength  of  the  coziness,  I  said  right  out  to  Mr.  C, 
sitting  opposite:  'How  long  had  you  to  wait  at  Carlisle  for  the 
train  tliat  put  you  down  at  the  Gill  at  seven  in  the  morning?  '  No 
opening  could  have  heen  better.  He  was  taken  quite  by  surprise; 
and,  before  he  had  time  to  consider  my  going  as  a  question,  he 
found  himself  engaged  in  considerations  of  the  best  way  to  go. 
After  that  he  could  not  well  go  back  upon  his  implied  assent. ' 
The  only  '  demurrer  *  he  could  put  in,  with  a  good  grace,  was  to 
ask:  '  What  did  I  mean  to  do  with  my  foot?  '  I  meant  it  to  get 
well,  I  said,  in  a  few  days;  of  course  I  shouldn't  think  of  going 
from  home  on  one  leg.  This  related  to  a  bruised,  or  sprained,  or 
someway  bedevilled  foot,  that  I  came  by  the  very  day  I  had  written 
to  you,  as  if,  I  almost  felt,  with  a  shudder  at  the  time,  it  was  the 
monition  of  Providence  that  I  should  go  on  no  such  journey.  I 
was  returning  from  Islington  where  I  had  been  to  ask  after  the 
lamed  foot  (!)  of  the  little  lady  who  was  my  honorary  nurse'  last 
winter.  The  Islington  omnibus  put  me  down  within  some  eighth 
part  of  a  mile  of  my  own  house.  I  had  one  rather  dark  street  to 
pass  through  first — taking  the  shortest  way— and  it  was  near  eleven 
o'clock  at  night.  I  didn't  care  for  being  alone  so  late ;  but  I  didn't 
want  to  be  seen  by  any  of  the  low  people  of  that  street  alone.  So  I 
stepped  off  the  pavement  to  avoid  passing  close  to  a  small  group 
standing  talking  at  a  door;  when  I  had  cleared  these  only  people  to 
be  seen  in  the  whole  street,  I  was  stepping  back  on  to  the  pavement, 
when,  the  curbstone  being  higher  than  I  noticed  in  the  shadow,  I 
struck  the  side  of  my  right  foot  violently  against  it  and  was  tripped 
over,  and  fell  smack  down,  full  length  on  the  pavement.  =* 

Considering  how  easily  I  might  have  broken  my  ribs,  it  is  won- 
derful that  the  fall  did  me  no  harm.  I  scrambled  up  directly;  but 
the  foot  I  had  struck  on  the  curbstone  before  falling  was  dreadfully 
sore,  and  it  was  made  worse,  you  may  believe,  by  having  to  use  it, 
after  a  sort,  to  get  myself  home.  How  I  got  home  at  all,  even  in 
holding  on  to  walls  and  railings,  I  can't  think.  But  once  at  home 
on  a  chair,  I  couldn't  touch  the  ground  with  it  on  any  account. 
Mr.  C.  had  to  carry  me  to  bed,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  knocking 
my  head  off  against  the  lintels.  So  I  wouldn't  be  carried  by  him 
any  more,  my  head  being  of  more  consequence  to  me  than  my  foot. 


'  Alas!  how  little  did  I  ever  know  of  these  secret  wishes  and  necessities— 
now  or  ever  I 
a  Mrs.  Dilberoglue  (?).  >  I  remember,  and  may  well. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  169 

It  was  dreadfully  swelled  for  a  couple  of  days;  but  to-day,  though  I 
still  cannot  get  a  shoe  on,  or  walk,  it  is  so  much  better  that  I  am 
sure  it  will  be  all  right  presently.  In  a  few  days  I  hope  to  be  able 
to  write  that  I  am  road-worthy,  and  I  will  only  wait  for  that.  It  is 
a  most  provoking  little  accident,  for  delays  are  so  dangerous.  I 
should  have  wished  after  my  experiences  of  late  summers  to  go  to 
you  at  once,  before  any  '  pigs '  have  time  to  '  run  through.' 

And  now  I  needn't  be  saying  more  but  that  God  grant  nothing 
may  prevent  our  meeting  this  time. 

Love  to  the  Doctor. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carltle. 


LETTER  247. 
To  Thomas  Carlyle,  Esq. ,  Chelsea. 

Holm  Hill,  Thomhill:  August  13,  1868. 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  wish  they  hadn't  started  that  carpet-lifting  and 
chimney-sweeping  process  so  immediately,  but  left  you  time  to 
recover  my  loss  (if  any)  in  the  usual  '  peace  and  quietness ' ! 
That  chimney  in  my  bedroom  had  to  be  swept,  however,  before 
winter  came;  and  no  time  so  good  as  when  T  was  on  my  travels. 
You  don't  complain :  but  your  few  lines  this  morning  make  the  im- 
pression on  me  of  having  been  written  under  '  a  dark  brown  shadd! ' 
I  told  Maria  if  she  observed  you  to  be  mismanaging  yourself,  and 
going  off  your  sleep  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  to  tell  me,  and  I 
should  be  back  like  a  returned  sky-rocket. 

For  myself,  I  am  all  right.  I  was  in  bed  before  eleven  o'clock 
struck,  with  a  stiff  little  tumbler  of  whisky  toddy  in  my  head,  and 
I  went  to  sleep  at  once,  and  slept  on,  with  only  some  half-dozen 
awakenings,  till  the  maid  brought  in  my  hot  water  at  eight  o'clock! 
My  foot,  as  well  as  my  'interior,'  is  benefited  by  the  good  night. 
It  was  too  lame  for  anything  yesterday.  But  there  was  no  tempta- 
tion to  use  it  much  yesterday;  it  rained  without  intermission.  To- 
day is  very  cloudy,  but  not  wet  as  yet;  and  we  are  going  for  a  drive 
in  the  close  carriage.  Dr.  Russell  has  both  an  open  and  a  close  car- 
riage, the  lucky  man!  Indeed  he  has  as  pretty  and  well-equipped 
a  place  here  as  any  reasonable  creature  could  desire.  But  Mrs. 
Russell  has  never  ceased  to  regret  the  tumble  down  old  house  in 
Thomhill,  '  where  there  was  always  something  going  on ! '  '  Look- 
ing out  on  the  trees  and  the  river  here  makes  her  so  melancholy,' 
11.-8 


170  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

she  says,  that  she  feels  sometimes  as  if  she  should  lose  her  senses! 
The  wished-for,  as  usual,  come  too  late!  Ease  with  dignity,  when 
the  habits  of  a  lifetime  have  made  her  incapable  of  enjoying  it! 

Would  you  tell  Maria  to  put  a  bit  of  paper  round  the  little  long- 
shaped  paste-board  box,  in  my  little  drawer  next  the  drawing-room, 
containing  the  two  ornamental  hair-pins,  and  send  them  to  me  by 
post; — they  are  quite  light;  I  want  thera  to  give  away.  Also  if  you 
were  to  put  a  couple  of  good  quill-pens  of  your  own  making  in  be- 
sides the  hair-pins,  'it  would  be  a  great  advantage.'  I  have  writ- 
ten to  say  a  word  expressly  about  the  tobacco.  Oh,  please,  do  go 
to  bed  at  a  reasonable  hour,  and  don't  overwork  yourself,  and  con- 
sider you  are  no  longer  a  child  I 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  248. 
"    To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

Holm  Hill,  Thomhill,  Dumfries:  Thm-sday,  Aug.  14, 1862. 

Oh,  my  little  woman,  how  glad  I  was  to  recognise  your  face 
through  the  glass  of  the  carriage  window,  all  dimmed  with  human 
breath  I  And  how  frightened  I  was  the  train  would  move,  while 
you  were  clambering  up  like  a  school-boy  to  kiss  me!  And  how  I 
grudged  the  long  walk  there  and  back  for  you,  and  the  waiting. 
Still  you  did  well  to  come,  for  it  (your  coming)  quite  brightened  up 
my  spirits  for  the  last  miles  of  my  journey,  which  are  apt  to  be 
mortally  tiresome.  I  hfd  meant  to  wave  my  handkerchief  from 
the  window  when  we  passed  the  Gill,  but  I  found  no  seat  vacant 
except  the  middle  one;  and  disagreeable  women,  on  each  side  of 
me,  closed  the  windows  all  but  an  inch,  so  to  make  any  demonstra- 
tion had  been  impossible.  The  more  my  gladness  to  catch  sight  of 
your  very  face.  And  Jane  and  her  husband  and  daughter  were 
waiting  for  me  at  Dumfries,  having  heard  of  my  coming  from  Dr. 
Carlyle.  '  So  the  latter  end  of  that  woman '  (meaning  me)  '  was 
better  than  the  beginning.' 

Dr.  Russell  was  waiting  for  me — had  been  waiting  more  than  an 
hour,  like  everyone  else — with  his  carriage,  in  which  I  was  con- 
veyed through  ways,  happily  for  me,  clothed  in  darkness,  so  that 
the  first  object  I  saw  was  Mrs.  Russell  at  the  door  of  their  new 
home.  It  is  a  most  beautiful  house  and  place  they  have  made  of 
old  Holm  Hill.  And  I  do  not  see  Templand  from  the  windows  as 
I  feared  I  should.     The  trees  have  grown  up  so  high. 


JANE  WELSH  CAELYLE.  171 

The  first  night  I  couldn't  sleep  a  bit  for  aii^itation  of  mind,  far 
more  than  fatigue  of  body.  The  next  night  I  slept;  last  night 
again  not.  So  today  I  feel  rather  ghastly.  Then  it  has  rained 
pretty  much  without  intermission.  Yesterday  we  took  a  very 
short  drive  between  showers,  and  that  was  the  only  time  I  have 
crossed  the  threshold ;  besides  the  bad  weather  I  brought  away  with 
me  a  recently  sprained  foot,  which  makes  walking  both  painful  and 
imprudent. 

Under  these  circumstances  I  have  not  yet  formed  any  plan  for 
my  future  travels;  but  shall  tell  you  in  a  few  days  whether  I  will 
pay  you  a  little  visit  on  the  road  home,  or  nm  down  from  here,  and 
back  again.  I  will  certainly  not  let  that  brief  meeting  stand  for  all, 
unless  you  forbid  me  to  come.  But  I  have  all  along  looked  to  be 
guided  by  circumstances  in  this  journey. 

My  stay  is  to  be  determined  by  the  accounts  I  get  of  Mr.  C.  from 
himself,  and  (still  more  dependably)  from  my  housemaid  Maria; 
and  my  road  back,  whether  as  I  came  or  by  Edinburgh,  to  be  de- 
cided on  when  I  shall  have  heard  from  Lady  Stanley  and  another 
English  friend  on  the  North  "Western  line.  But  I  would  not  leave 
you  wondering  what  was  become  of  me,  or  if  it  had  been  really  me 
or  my  wraith  j'ou  had  seen. 

In  a  few  days,  then,  you  will  hear  further.     Meanwhile 

Your  affectionate 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  249. 
To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  GiU,  Annan. 

Holm  Hill:  Saturday,  Aug.  30, 1862. 

My  dear,  ever  kind  Mary, — In  the  first  place,  God  bless  you  and 
yours.  Secondly,  I  am  '  all  right '  or  pretty  nearly  so.  Thirdly,  I 
forward  the  proof-sheet  of  Mrs.  Oliphant's  book  which  I  promised, 
and  .something  else  which  was  not  promised — a  photograph  of  my 
interesting  self,  taken  by  a  Thornliill  hau'dre.sser,  and  not  so  very 
bad,  it  strikes  me,  as  photographs  go.  This  last  blessed  item  of  my 
sending  is  intended  as  a  present  to  your  husband,  'all  to  himself,' 
as  the  children  say. 

A  letter  from  Mr.  C.  to  me  was  forwarded  fron^  Scotsbrig  to  the 
Doctor,  and  given  to  me  at  the  station,  and  another  letter  from  Mr. 
C.  awaited  me  at  Thornhill;  a  very  attentive  Mr.  C.  really! 

I  have  no  time  to  spare  for  writing  more  than  the  absolutely 
needful.     Six  letters  by  post  this  morning,  most  of  them  needing 


172  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

immediate  answer,  and  we  are  to  drive  to  Morton  Castle  before 
dinner. 
God  keep  you  all,  well  and  mindful  of  me  till  I  come  again. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlylb. 

LETTER  250. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Craigen villa:  Tuesday,  Sept.  2,  1862. 

Oh,  you  stupid,  stupid  Good!  not  to  know  my  handwriting 
when  you  see  it  at  this  time  of  day.  It  was  I  who  directed  that 
photograph  and  posted  it  at  Thornhill.  I  just  turned  my  hand- 
writing a  little  back,  and  sent  it,  without  a  word,  to  puzzle  you, 
forgetting  that  the  post-mark  would  betray  where  it  came  from. 
It  was  done  by  a  Thornhill  hairdresser;  Mrs.  Russell  and  I  got 
taken  one  day  for  fun,  and  if  I  had  dreamt  of  coming  out  so  well  I 
would  have  dressed  myself  better,  and  turned  the  best  side  of  my 
face. 

My  departure  from  Nithsdale  was  like  the  partings  of  dear  old 
long  ago,  before  one  had  experienced  what  '  time  will  teach  the 
softest  heart,  unmoved  to  meet,  ungrieved  to  part,'  as  the  immortal 
Mr.  Terrot  once  wrote.  And  then  the  journey  through  the  hills  to 
that  little  lonely  churchyard'— all  that  caused  me  so  many  tears, 
that  to-day  my  eyes  are  out  of  my  head,  and  I  am  sick  and  sore. 
And,  of  course,  sleep  was  out  of  the  question  after  such  a  day  of 
emotion — when  so  ill  to  be  caught  at  the  best  of  times — and  I  have 
had  just  one  hour  of  broken  slumber  (from  five  till  six),  and  I  was 
up  at  six  yesterday  morning.  Sol  mustn't  go  after  Betty  to-day; 
she  would  be  too  shocked  with  my  looks.  Grace  and  I  will  take  a 
short  drive  in  an  omnibus  (for  a  change).  Neither  must  I  sit  writ- 
ing to  you,  in  detail,  for  my  head  spins  round,  and  I  could  tell  you 
nothing  worth  the  effort  of  telling  it.  I  left  a  letter  to  be  posted  at 
Thornhill  yesterday. 

So  Garibaldi— or,  as  a  man  in  the  carriage  with  me  last  evening 
was  calling  him,  Garri  Bauldy— is  wounded  and  captured  already 
— luck,  I  should  say,  to  the  poor  fellows  he  was  leading  to  destruc- 
tion! Mazzini  will  be  thankful  he  must  have  reached  Garibaldi; 
it  is  to  be  hoped  he  is  not  taken  also,  but  he  went  with  his  eyes 
perfectly  open  to  the  madness. 

>  Crawford,  where  her  mother's  grave  Is. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  173 

Grace  was  waiting  at  the  train  for  me,  and  instantly  found  me 
under  my  hat  and  feather  in  the  dark.  She  said  it  was  by  a  motion 
of  my  hand. 

They  are  all  most  kind.  Elizabeth  not  so  poorly  as  I  expected  to 
find  her;  Grace  and  Ann  younger-looking  than  last  time— hair 
raven  black,  far  blacker  than  mine.  Good-bye!  I  hope  to  sleep 
tonight;  for  I  will  have  a  dose  of  morphia  now  that  I  am  near 
Duncan  and  Flockhart,  and  then  I  will  be  up  to  a  better  letter  than 
this.  I  have  left  Grace  to  make  out  the  'old  goose,''  and  tell  me 
the  needful.  Your  ever 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  251. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  Thoi'nJdll. 

Craigenvilla,  Morningside:  Tuesday,  Sept.  2,  1862. 
My  darling! — Nature  prompts  me  to  write  just  aline,  though  I 
am  not  up  to  a  letter  to-day,  at  least  to  any  other  letter  than  the 
daily  one  to  Mr.  C,  which  must  be  written  dead  or  alive.  Imagine  I 
after  such  a  tiring  day,  I  never  closed  my  eyes  till  after  five  this 
morning!  and  was  awake  again  for  good,  or  rather  for  bad,  before 
six  struck!  My  eyes  are  almost  out  of  my  head  this  morning;  and 
tell  the  Doctor,  or  rather  don't  tell  him,  I  will  have  a  dose  of  mor- 
phia to-night! — am  just  going  in  an  omnibus  to  Duncan  and  Flock- 
hart's  for  it.  It  will  calm  down  my  mind  for  once— generally  my 
mind  needs  no  calming,  being  sunk  in  apathy.  And  this  won't  do 
to  go  on ! 

Mr.  C.  writes  this  morning  that  be  had  received  a  letter  in  the 
handwriting  of  Dr.  Russell  (!)  (my  own  handwriting  slightly  dis- 
guised), and  'had  torn  it  open  in  a  fright!!  thinking  that  the  Doc- 
tor was  writing  to  tell  I  was  ill!  and  found  a  photograph  of  me, 
really  very  like  indeed,'  but  not  a  word  '  from  the  Doctor '  inside! 
He  took  it  as  a  sign  that  I  was  off!  (why,  in  all  the  world,  take  it 
as  that?)  'but  it  would  have  been  an  additional  favour  had  the 
Doctor  written  just  a  line! ' 

Grace  was  waiting  at  the  station  for  me,  much  to  my  astonish- 
ment ;  and  discovered  me  at  once,  under  the  hat  and  feather,  actu- 
ally!  She  said  by  '  a  motion  of  my  hand  ' !  Tiie  drains  are  all  lorn 
up  at  Morningside,  and  she  was  afraid  I  would  not  get  across  the 
rubbish  in  my  cab  without  a  pilot.     They  are  all  looking  well,  I 

'  Some  foolish  letter  to  me. 


174  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

think — even  'Elizabeth.     Many  friendly  inquiries  about  you,  and 
love  to  be  sent. 

Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!    My  head  is  full  of  wool!     Shall  I  ever 
forget  these  green  hills,  and  that  lonely  churchyard,  and  your  dear, 
gentle  face! 
Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  a  sleep! 

Your  own  friend, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

The  roots  are  all  in  the  garden. 


LETTER  252. 
To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

Craigenvilla,  Morningside  (Edinburgh):  Thursday,  Sept.  4, 1862. 

'  Two  afflictions  make  a  consolation ' — of  a  sort!  The  disappoint- 
ment of  not  receiving  the  usual  good  words  from  you  this  morning 
comforted  my  conscience  at  least  for  having  failed  in  my  own  writ- 
ing yesterday.  I  could  figure  you  eating  your  breakfast  at  Cheyne 
Row,  without  any  letter  from  me,  with  no  particular  pang  of  re- 
morse ;  when  I  was  eating  my  breakfast  here  with  only  the  direc- 
tion on  '  Orley  Farm'  for  a  relish  to  my  indifferent  tea!  It  was 
partly  the  morphia  that  hindered  me  yesterday,  and  partly  the  rain. 
The  morphia,  which  answered  the  end  capitally,  and  procured  me 
the  only  really  sound  sleep  I  have  had  since  I  went  on  my  travels, 
made  me  feel  too  listless  for  writing  before  going  to  Betty's;  and 
the  walk  through  the  rain  to  the  cab  when  we  returned  made  me 
too  tired  for  writing  after  in  time  for  the  Morningside  post. 

Well,  I  have  seen  Betty,  and  Betty  has  seen  me.  Poor  dear!  It 
wasn't  so  '  good  a  joy  '  as  it  might  have  been;  for  Ann  and  Grace 
in  their  kindness  would  not  let  me  go  by  myself,  and  the  three  of 
us  were  too  many  for  the  wee  house  and  for  Betty's  nerves,  which 
aren't  what  they  were.  But  she  made  the  best  of  that  as  of  every- 
thing else.  'It'sweel  they're  so  kind  to  ye,  dear;  and  it's  richt,' 
she  said,  during  a  minute  we  were  alone  together.  She  gave  me 
the  'stockns'  (beautiful  fine  white  ones),  and  a  little  packet  of  pep- 
permint lozenges  were  lying  beside  them,  'in  case  I  ever  cam'.' 
Dear,  kind  soul!  her  heart  is  the  same  warm  loyal  heart;  but  these 
seven  years  of  nursing  have  made  terrible  alterations  in  her;  her  hair 
is  white  as  snow,  and  her  face  is  so  fined  away  that  it  looks  as  if 
one  might  blow  it  away  like  powder.     I  don't  think  she  can  stand 


JANE  WELSH  CAHLYLE.  175 

much  longer  of  it.  George  (poor  patient  '  Garg ' !)  is  neither  better 
nor  worse;  his  mind  not  weakened  at  all,  I  think  (which  is  wonder- 
ful). Old  Braid  keeps  himself  in  health  by  much  working  in  his 
garden,  which  is  prolific.  '  Sic  a  crapp  o'  gude  peas,  dear!  Oh, 
if  I  could  have  sent  Mr.  Carlyle  a  wee  dish  o'  them  to  cheer  him  up 
when  he  was  alane,  poor  man! '  '  Oh,  dear! '  she  said,  again  catch- 
ing my  arm  excitedly,  'wad  onybody  believe  it?  He — yer  gude- 
man — direcks  "  Punch"  till  us  every  week,  his  ain  sell,  to  sic  as  usl' 
Mr.  Braid  did  not  know  me  when  I  went  in  at  the  door  the  first; 
and  when  I  taxed  him  with  it  he  said,  '  How  should  I  ken  ye?  Ye 
lookit  like  a  bit  skelt  o'  a  lassie,  wi'  that  daft  wee  thing  a-tap  o'  yer 
heed!' 

I  mean  to  get  home,  please  God,  at  the  beginning  of  next  week. 
I  cannot  fix  the  day  just  yet,  being  'entangled  in  details  '  with  the 
Auchtertool  people.  I  have  seen  nobody  here  but  the  Braids — 
indeed,  there  is  nobody  I  much  care  to  see.  A  most  uninteresting 
place  Edinburgh  is  become.  I  would  like  to  spend  an  hour  at 
Haddington  in  the  dark!  But  I  'don't  see  my  way '  to  that.  I 
was  glad  to  hear  that  Scotsbrig  Jenny  was  getting  over  her  bad  fit. 
Grace  has  just  come  in,  and  sends  her  regards. 

Yours  ever, 

Jaite  Cabltlb. 

LETTER  253. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Chelsea. 

Craigenvilla  (Edinburgh):  Friday,  Sept.  5,  1868. 

Thanks,  dear;  here  is  a  nice  little  letter  this  morning,  which  has 
had  the  double  effect  of  satisfying  my  anxieties  and  delivering  me 
from  '  prayers.'  I  ran  up  to  my  room  with  it,  and  shut  myself  in, 
and  when  I  issued  forth  again,  prayers  were  over!  What  luckl 
My  aunts  are  as  kind  to  me  as  they  can  be — all  three  of  them — and 
they  exert  themselves  beyond  their  strength,  I  can  see,  to  make  my 
visit  pleasant  to  me;  but  still  I  am  like  a  fish  out  of  water  in  this 
element  of  religiosity,  or  rather  like  a  human  being  in  water,  and 
the  water  hot. 

I  am  glad  you  have  heard  from  my  lady  at  last.  I  was  beginning 
to  not  understand  it;  to  fear  either  you  or  I  must  have  in  someway 
displeased  her.  If  you  could  bring  yourself  to  go  to  the  Grange  at 
once  I  shouldn't  at  all  mind  your  being  away  when  I  arrived; 
should  rather  like  to  transact  my  fatigues  and  my  acclimatising  'in 
a  place  by  myself.'    And  we  might  still  have  the  '  sacred  week  '  of 


176  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

idling  and  sightseeing  (an  exceptional  week  in  our  mutual  life,  it 
■would  be)  after  your  returu. 

I  find  I  cannot  get  off  from  Aucbtertool.  I  shouldn't  dislike  a 
couple  of  days  there  (though  many  days  couldn't  be  endured) 
if  it  weren't  for  that  'crossing.'  But,  like  it  or  not,  I  must  just 
'cross  and  recross'!  Maggie  is  returned.  Walter  has  put  off 
joining  Alexander  at  Crawford ;  they  are  all  expecting  me,  and 
the  only  expedient  by  which  I  could  have  avoided  visiting 
them  without  giving  offence  to  their  kind  feelings,  viz.,  invit- 
ing them  all  to  spend  a  day  with  me  here,  cannot  be  '  carried 
out' — for  '  reasons  it  may  be  interesting  not  to  state.'  After  all  I 
have  no  kinder  relative  or  friend  in  the  world  than  poor  Walter. 
Every  summer,  when  invitations  were  not  so  plenty,  his  house,  and 
all  that  is  his,  has  been  placed  at  my  disposal.  It  is  the  only  house 
where  I  could  go,  without  an  invitation,  at  any  time  that  suited 
myself;  and,  considering  all  that,  I  must  just  'cross'  to-morrow,  in 
the  intention,  liowever,  of  staying  only  two  days.  I  should  have 
gone  to-day  but  for  a  letter  of  Walter's — '  missent  to  Liberton  ' — 
and  so  not  reaching  me  in  time. 

I  am  now  going  off  to  town  with  Grace  to  get  her  photograph 
taken — 'for  Jeaunie's  book,' she  says;  but  I  doubt  the  singleness 
of  the  alleged  motive.  I  sliall  call  for  Mrs.  Stirling — who  else? 
Alas,  my  old  friends  are  '  all  wed  away ' ! ' 

I  return  the  letter,  which  seems  to  me  perfectly  serious  and  rather 
sensible;  only  what  of  Shakespeare?  Shakespeare  '  never  did  the 
like  o't!' 

Address  here;  I  shall  find  it  (the  letter)  on  my  return  from  Aucb- 
tertool, if  I  am  not  here  before  it.  It  was  thunder  and  lightning 
and  waterspouts  yesterday ;  terrible  for  laying  the  crops,  surely. 

Yours  ever, 

Jane  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  254. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

Auchtertool  Manse:  Monday,  Sept.  8,  1862. 
So  long  as  I  am  in  Scotland,  my  darling,  I  cannot  help  feeling 
that  my  head-quarters  is  Holm  Hill!  though  I  go  buzzing  here  and 
there,  like  a  '  Bum-bee  '  in  the  neighbourhood  of  its  hive.    Every- 
where that  I  go  I  am  warmly  welcomed,  and  made  much  of;  but 

>  Flowers  of  the  Forest. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  177 

nowhere  that  I  go  do  I  feel  so  at  home,  in  an  element  so  congenial 
to  me,  as  with  you  and  the  Doctor  1  At  Craigenvilla,  though  treated 
as  a  niece,  and  perhaps  even  a  favourite  niece,  I  am  always  reacting 
against  the  self-assumption,  and  the  religiosity  (not  the  religion, 
mind!);  and  here,  though  I  am  'cousin' — their  one  cousin,  for 
whom  their  naturally  hospitable  and  kindly  natures  are  doubly  hos- 
pitable and  kindly— still  I  miss  that  congeniality  which  comes  of 
having  mutually  suffered,  and  taken  one's  suffering  to  heart!  I 
feel  here  as  if  I  were  '  playing '  with  nice,  pretty,  well-behaved 
children!  I  almost  envy  them  their  light-hearted  capacity  of  being 
engrossed  with  trifles !  And  yet,  not  that !  there  is  a  deeper  joy  in 
one's  own  sorrowful  memories  surely,  than  in  this  gaiety  that  comes 
of  '  never  minding ' !  Would  I,  would  you,  cease  to  regret  the  dear 
ones  we  have  lost  if  we  could?  Would  we  be  light-hearted,  at  the 
cost  of  having  nothing  in  one's  heart  very  precious  or  sacred?  Oh, 
no!  better  ever  such  grief  for  the  lost,  than  never  to  have  loved 
anyone  enough  to  have  one's  equanimity  disturbed  by  the  loss! 

I  came  here  on  Saturday;  was  to  have  come  on  Friday,  but  had  to 
wait  for  a  letter  of  Walter's  '  mis-sent  to  Liberton.'  I  go  back  to 
Morningside  to-morrow  forenoon,  unless  it  'rains  cats  and  dogs!' 
And  then  to  London  after  one  day's  rest!  And  after  all  my  haste 
— at  least  haste  after  leaving  Holm  Hill — the  chances  are  I  shall 
find  Mr.  C.  just  gone  to  the  Grange.  He  had  '  partly  decided  on 
going  next  Tuesday  (tomorrow).'  And,  if  I  wasn't  home  in  time 
to  go  with  him,  he  had  engaged  I  would  join  him  there!  Don't  he 
wish  he  may  get  me!  He  will  have  to  stay  considerably  longer 
than  the  '  one  week '  he  talks  of,  before  I  shall  feel  disposed  to 
'take  the  road'  again!  In  fact,  I  should  greatly  like  a  few  days 
'  all  to  myself,'  to  sleep  off  my  fatigues,  and  get  acclimatised,  before 
having  to  resume  my  duties  as  mistress  of  the  house. 

Alex.  Welsh  came  to  Crawford  the  'next  day,'  as  predicted;  but 
'  his  Reverence  '  never  joined  him  there.  And  Alex.,  finding  the 
fishing  as  bad  as  possible,  went  on  to  spend  a  few  days  with  the 
Chrystals  in  Glasgow,  before  returning  to  Liverpool. 

God  keep  you,  dearest  friend ;  after  the  Doctor,  there  is  nobody 
you  are  so  precious  to  as  to  me!    I  will  write  from  Chelsea. 

Your  loving 

J.  Carlylb. 

II.-«* 


178  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  255. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Tuesday  night,  Sept.  30,  1868. 

Dearest  of  Friends, — I  am  writing  two  lines  at  this  late  hour, 
because  I  don't  want  the  feeling  of  closeness  that  has  outlived  the 
precious  three  weeks  we  were  together  to  die  out  through  length  of 
silence.  For  the  rest,  I  am  not  in  good  case  for  writing  a  pleasant 
letter,  having  had  no  sleep  last  niglit,  and  the  bad  night  not  having 
been  compensated,  as  my  bad  nights  at  Holm  Hill  were,  strangely 
enough,  by  a  good  day.  And  I  am  bothered,  too,  with  prepara- 
tions for  a  journey  to-morrow.  What  a  locomotive  animal  I  have 
suddenly  become !  Yes,  it  is  a  fact,  my  dear,  that  to-morrow '  I 
am  bound  for  Dover,  to  stay  till  Monday  with  that  lady  we  call 
'the  flight  of  Skylarks,''  who  was  wanting  me  to  come  home  by 
her  place  in  Derbyshire.  She  is  now  at  Dover,  in  lodgings,  for  the 
benefit  of  sea  air;  and  has  invited  me  there  since  I  wouldn't  go  to 
"Wooton  Hall,  and  Mr.  C,  who  thought  I  ought  to  have  come  home 
by  her,  wishes  me  to  go.  And  I  am  sure  I  have  no  objections;  for 
I  like  her  much,  and  I  like  the  sea  much.  But  I  '  am  not  to  be 
staying  away  this  time,'  he  says,  '  and  leaving  him  long  by  himself 
again.'  No  fear!  I  must  return  to  London  on  Monday,  or  I  should 
not  see  Charlotte  Cushman  (who  is  now  in  Liverpool  and  returns 
here  on  Thursday)  before  her  departure  for  Rome.  Indeed,  charna- 
ing  as  I  think  the  'flight  of  Skylarks,'  I  should  not  be  unsettling 
myself  again  if  only  I  had  kept  the  better  health  and  spirits  I 
brought  back  from  Scotland.  It  was  too  much  to  hope,  however, 
that  I  could  keep  all  that  long.  The  clammy  heavy  weather  we 
have  had  for  the  last  week  has  put  me  all  wrong  somehow.  I  am 
sick  at  stomach,  or  at  heart  (I  can't  tell  which),  and  have  a  con- 
tinual irritation  in  my  bits  of  'interiors,'  and  horrid  nights,  for  all 
which,  I  daresay,  the  sea  is  the  best  medicine.  I  shall  tell  you  how 
it  has  answered  when  I  come  back. 

Love  to  the  Doctor.  Your  own 

J.  W.  C. 


>  "Went  October  1. 

"Miss  Davenport  Bromley;  her  great-grandfather  at  'Wooton,'  In  Staf- 
fordshire, was  the  '  Mr.  Davenport '  who  gave  shelter  to  Rousseau. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  179 

LETTER  256. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

1  Sidney  Villas,  Dover:  Wednesday  afternoon,  Oct.  1, 1862. 

I  may  take  a  reasonable  sheet  of  paper,  dear!  for,  besides  being 
not  '  too  tired  for  writing,'  I  have  abundance  of  time  for  writing, 
'  the  Larks ' '  being  all  far  up  out  of  sight,  beyond  the  visible  sky ! 
looking  for  me  there.  My  journey  was  successful,  and  I  stepped 
out  at  Dover  worth  half  a  dozen  of  the  woman  I  left  Chelsea.  Cu- 
rious what  a  curative  effect  a  railway  journej'  has  on  me  always, 
while  you  it  makes  pigs  and  whistles  of!  Is  it  the  motion,  or  is  it 
the  changed  air?     '  God  knows! ' 

The  first  thing  that  befell  me  at  Dover  was  a  disappointment — 
no  Larks  waiting!  not  a  feather  of  them  to  be  discovered  by  the 
naked  eye.  The  next  thing  that  befell  me  was  to  be  deceived  and 
betrayed  and  entirely  discomfited  by — a  sailor.  After  looking 
about  for  the  Larks  some  ten  minutes,  and  being  persecuted  as 
long  by  pressing  proposals  from  cabmen  and  omnibus  conductors, 
I  was  asking  a  porter  how  far  it  was  to  Sidney  Villas.  The  porter 
not  knowing  the  place,  a  sailor  came  forward  and  said  he  knew  it, 
that  it  '  was  just  a  few  steps ;  I  would  be  there  in  a  minute  if  I 
liked  to  walk,  and  he  would  carry  my  trunk  for  me.'  And,  with- 
out waiting  to  have  the  question  debated,  he  threw  my  trunk  over 
his  shoulder  and  walked  off.  I  followed,  quite  taken  by  assault. 
And  we  walked  on  and  on,  and  oh,  such  a  distance! — certainly  two 
miles  at  least,  the  sailor  pretending  to  not  hear  every  time  I  re- 
monstrated, or  assuring  me  '  I  couldn't  find  a  prettier  walk  in  all 
Dover  than  this.'  At  last  we  reached  Sidney  Villas;  and  when  I 
accused  my  sailor  of  having  basely  misled  me  that  he  might  have  a 
job,  he  candidly  owned,  'Well,  things  are  dear  just  now,  and  few 
jobs  going,'  wiping  tlie  sweat  from  his  brow  at  the  same  time,  and 
looking  delighted  with  the  shilling  I  gave  him.  I  thought  it  was 
all  gone  to  the  devil  together  when  the  man  who  answered  the  bell 
denied  that  Miss  Bromley  was  there.  On  cross-questioning,  how- 
ever, he  explained  that  she  did  reside  thcTe,  but  was  not  at  home — 
was  '  gone  to  the  railway  to  meet  a  lady  ' — and  his  eye  just  then 
squinting  on  my  portmanteau,  he  exclaimed,  with  sudden  cordial- 
ity, '  Perhaps  you  are  the  lady?  '    I  owned  the  soft  impeachment 

'  See  note,  p.  178. 


180  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  was  shown  to  the  bedroom  prepared  for  me,  and  have  washed 
and  unpacked.  Meanwhile  Miss  B.'smaid,  who  had  gone  to  one 
station  while  Miss  B.  went  to  the  other  to  make  sure  of  me,  re- 
turned and  gave  me  a  cup  of  tea,  and  then  went  off  to  catch  the 
poor  dear  Larks,  who  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  wrong  station. 
There  being  a  third  station  (the  one  at  which  I  landed),  it  hadn't 
occurred  to  either  mistress  or  maid  to  ask  at  which  of  the  three 
stations  the  three  o'clock  train  stopped. 

Larks  come  with  feathers  all  in  a  fluff.  'So  dreadfully  sorry,' 
&c.  &c.  Dinner  not  till  seven,  and  to  be  enlivened  by  the  pres- 
ence of  Mr.  Brookfield,  Avhom  she  had  met  while  looking  for  me. 
'  Seven ! '  and  I  had  only  one  small  cup  of  tea  and  one  slice  of 
etherial  bread  and  butter.     But  we  '  must  make  it  do.' 

This  house  is  within  a  stone-cast  of  the  sea,  and  also,  alas!  of 
the  pier;  so  that  there  is  as  much  squealing  of  children  at  this 
moment  as  if  it  were  Cheyne  Row.  Nothing  but  a  white  blind  to 
keep  out  the  light  of  a  large  window.  But  with  shutters  and  still- 
ness, and  all  possible  furtherance,  I  was  finding  sleep  impossible  at 
home;  so  perhaps  it  may  suit  the  contradictory  nature  of  the  ani- 
mal to  sleep  here  without  them. 

Now,  upon  my  word,  this  is  a  fairly  long  letter  to  be  still  in  the 
first  day  of  absence.  It  will,  at  least,  show  that  I  am  less  ghastly 
sick  and  with  less  worry  in  my  interior  than  when  I  left  in  the 
morning. 

Yours  anyhow, 

J.  W.  Cahlyle. 

LETTER  257. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

1  Sidney  Villas,  Dover:  Friday,  Oct.  3, 1862. 
Oh,  my  dear!  I  '  did  design '  to  write  you  a  nice  long  letter  to- 
day. But  '  you  must  just  excuse  us '  again.  I  am  the  victim  of 
'circumstances  over  which  I  have  no  control.'  I  must  put  you  off 
with  a  few  lines,  and  lie  down  on  the  sofa  of  my  bedroom,  and 
try  to  g^et  warm,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  me.  You  see  I  am 
taking  every  day  a  warm  sea-bath,  hoping  to  derive  benefit  from  it 
— '  cha-arge  '  half-a-crown.  But,  never  mind,  if  I  can  stave  off  an 
illness  at  the  beginning  of  winter,  I  shall  save  in  doctor's  bills! 
Well,  my  bath  to-day  made  me  excessively  sleepy,  and  I  lay  down 
to  sleep,  and  in  five  minutes  I  was  called  down  to  luncheon,  and 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  181 

after  luncheon  I  must  go  with  Miss  Bromley  to  call  for  Lady 
Doyle,  with  whom  Miss  Wynne,  just  arrived  from  Carlsbad,  had 
been  yesterday — might  still  be  to-day.  Our  call  executed,  it  was 
proposed  we  should  drive  on  to  Shakespeare's  Cliff,  and  when 
there,  we  were  driven  away  'over  the  heights' — a  most  alarming 
road — all  this  time  in  an  open  carriage;  and  now  that  we  are  come 
in  there  is  not  a  fire  anywhere — never  is  any  fire  to  warm  myself 
at — and  so  I  am  not  at  all  in  right  trim  for  letter-writing.  And 
common  prudence  requires  I  should  lie  down  and  get  into  heat. 

For  the  rest  it  is  all  right.  I  have  slept  very  fairly  both  nights 
in  spite  of — 'many  things!'  Miss  B.  is  kind  and  charming,  the 
place  is  '  delicious, '  and  I  am  certainly  much  better  for  the  change. 
But,  for  all  that,  I  am  coming  home  without  fail  at  the  time  I 
fixed;  not  from  any  'puritanical'  adherence  to  my  word  given, 
but  that  by  Monday  I  shall  have  had  enough  of  it  and  got  all  the 
good  to  be  got.  Miss  B.  has  pressed  me  earnestly  to  stay  till  Mon- 
day week;  but  no  need  to  bid  me — '  be  firm,  Alicia! ' 

What  a  pity  about  poor  Bessy!  She  says  she  'was  always  a 
worshipper  of  genius,  and  recollects  one  day  in  particular  when 
Mr.  Carlyle  poured  out  such  a  stream  of  continuous  eloquence  that 
she  was  forcibly  reminded  of  the  lady  who  spoke  pearls  and  dia- 
monds in  the  fairy  tale.'  She  is  very  proud  of  her  book  and  pho- 
tograph. That  absurd  corkmaker  sends  me  his  photograph.  I 
will  bring  his  letter  for  you;  inclosed  in  mine  it  is  over-weight. 

[No  room  to  sigri]  '  J.  W.  C. ' 


LETTER  258. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  October  20, 1862. 

Now  Mary,  dear!  pray  don't  let  the  echoes  of  your  voice  die 
out  of  my  ears,  if  you  can  help  it!  It  makes  the  difference  be- 
twixt feeling  near  and  feeling  far  away;  the  difference  betwixt 
writing  off-hand,  as  one  speaks,  and  writing  cramped  apologies. 
You  may  not  liave  anything  momentous  to  tell;  but  I  am  not  diffi- 
cult to  interest,  wlien  it  is  you  who  are  writing.  Just  fill  a  small 
sheet  with  such  matter  as  you  would  say  to  me,  if  I  were  sitting 
opposite  you,  and  I  shall  be  quite  content. 

Neither  have  I  myself  anytliing  momentous  to  tell,  except,  I  was 
going  to  say,  that  I  had  got  a  new  bonnet,  or  rather  my  last  win 


183  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

ter's  bonnet  transformed  into  a  new  one ;  but  it  suddenly  flashes 
over  me,  that  is  by  no  means  the  most  momentous  thing  I  have  to 
tell;  a  new  bonnet  is  nothing  in  comparison  to  a  new — maidl  Ah, 
my  dear!  Yes,  I  am  changing  my  housemaid;  I  have  foreseen 
for  long,  even  when  she  was  capering  about  me,  and  kissing  my 
hands  and  shawl,  that  this  emotional  young  lady  would  not  wear 
well  ;  and  that  some  fine  day  her  self-conceit  and  arrogance 
would  find  the  limits  of  my  patience.  Indeed,  I  should  have  lost 
patience  with  her  long  ago,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her  cleverness 
about  Mr.  C.'s  books,  which  I  fancied  would  make  him  extremely 
averse  to  parting  with  her,  as  cleverness  of  that  sort  is  not  a  com- 
mon gift  with  housemaids.  But  not  at  all — at  least  not  in  pros- 
pect; he  says  she  is  'such  an  affected  fool,'  and  so  heedless  in 
other  respects  that  it  is  quite  agreeable  to  him  '  that  she  should 
carry  her  fantasticalities  and  incompetences  elsewhere!'  She  had 
calculated  on  being  indispensable,  on  the  score  of  the  books,  and 
was  taking,  since  soon  after  my  return  from  Scotland,  a  position 
in  the  house  which  was  quite  preposterous — domineering  towards 
the  cook,  and  impertinent  to  me!  picking  and  choosing  at  her  work 
— in  fact,  not  behaving  like  a  servant  at  all,  but  like  a  lady,  who,  for 
a  caprice,  or  a  wager,  or  anything  except  wages  and  board,  was 
condescending  to  exercise  light  functions  in  the  house,  provided 
you  kept  her  in  good  humour  with  gifts  and  praises. 

When  Mr.  C.'s  attention  was  directed  to  her  procedure,  he  saw 
the  intolerableness  as  clearly  as  I  did ;  so  I  was  quite  free  to  try 
conclusions  with  the  girl— either  she  should  apologise  for  her  im- 
pertinence and  engage  (like  Magdalen  Smith)  '  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf,'  or  she  should  (as  Mr.  C.  said)  '  carry  her  fantasticalities  and 
incompetences  elsewhere! '  She  chose,  of  course,  the  worser  part; 
and  I  made  all  the  haste  possible  to  engage  a  girl  in  her  place,  and 
make  the  fact  known,  that  so  I  might  protect  myself  against 
scenes  of  reconciliation,  which,  to  a  woman  as  old  and  nervous  as 
I  am,  are  just  about  as  tiresome  as  scenes  of  altercation.  All  sorts 
of  scenes  cost  me  my  sleep,  to  begin  with ;  and  are  a  sheer  waste  of 
vital  power,  which  one's  servant  at  least  ought  really  not  to  cost 
one! 

I  am  going  to  try  a  new  arrangement — that  of  keeping  two 
women  (experienced,  or  considering  themselves  so)  to  do  an  amount 
of  work  between  them  which  any  good  experienced  servant  could 
do  singly  having  hitherto  proved  unmanageable  with  me.  I  have 
engaged  a  little  girl  o€  tke  neighbourhood  (age  about  fifteen)  to  be 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  183 

under  the  Scotchwoman.  She  is  known  to  me  as  an  honest,  truth- 
ful, industrious  little  girl.  Her  parents  are  rather  superior  people 
in  their  station.  The  father  is  a  collector  on  the  boats.  She  is 
used  to  work,  but  not  at  all  to  what  Mr.  C.'s  father  would  have 
called  the  '  curiosities  and  niceties  '  of  a  house  like  this.  So  I  shall 
have  trouble  enough  in  licking  her  into  shape.  But  trouble  is 
always  a  bearable  thing  for  me  in  comparison  with  irritation.  The 
chief  drawback  is  that  the  mother  is  sickly,  and  this  child  has  been 
her  mainstay  at  home;  and  though  both  parents  have  willingly 
sacrificed  their  own  convenience  to  get  their  child  into  so  respect- 
able a  place,  my  fear  is  that  after  I  have  had  the  trouble  of  licking 
her  into  shape,  the  mother,  under  the  pressure  of  home  difficulties, 
may  be  irresistibly  tempted  to  take  her  home  again.  Well,  there  is 
an  excellent  Italian  proverb,  '  The  person  who  considers  everything 
will  never  decide  on  anything! '  Meanwhile,  Elizabeth  looks  much 
more  alive  and  cheerful  since  she  had  this  change  in  view;  and  I 
shall  be  delivered  from  the  botheration  of  two  rival  queens  in  the 
kitchen  at  all  events.  That  I  shall  have  to  fetch  the  books,  and  do 
the  sewing  myself,  will  perhaps — '  keep  the  devil  from  my  elbow.' 
I  had  a  letter  from  my  Aunt  Ann  the  other  day,  the  first  I  have 
had  from  any  of  them  since  I  was  at  Craigenvilla,  in  spite  of 
entreaties  and  remonstrances  on  my  part.  She  tells  me  that  the 
maidservant  whom  Grace  '  converted '  some  years  ago  is  still  pray- 
ing earnestly  for  Mr.  Carlyle.  She  has  been  at  it  a  long  while  now, 
and  must  be  tired  of  writing  to  my  aunts  to  ask  whether  they  had 
heard  if  anything  had  happened  through  her  prayers.  I  will  send 
you  Ann's  letter;  burn  it  before,  or  having  read  it — as  you  like. 
Does  it  amuse  you  to  read  letters  (good  in  their  way)  not  addressed 
to  yourself?  Tell  me  that;  for  if  it  does,  I  could  often,  at  the 
small  cost  of  an  extra  stamp,  send  you  on  any  letter  that  has 
pleased  myself,  without  putting  you  to  the  trouble  of  returning 
them.  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  have  so  many  visitors  to  enliven 
you  in  the  winter;  and  then  you  will  take  to  thinking  it  was 
livelier  at  Thornhill,  with  your  window  looking  on  the  street.  Oh 
my  dear!  I  wonder  liow  the  Doctor  is  so  angelically  patient  with 
your  hankering  after  the  old  house,  when  he  has  made  the  new 
one  so  lovely  for  you.  Yet  I  can  understand  all  that  about  the  old 
house.     I  can,  who  am  a  woman! 


184  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

LETTER  259. 

To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  Chill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  Oct.  23, 1863. 

Blessings  on  you,  dear!  These  eggs  have  been  such  a  deliver- 
ance. Can  you  believe  it  of  me?  I  have  been  in  such  a  worry  of 
mind  of  late  days,  that  vrere  it  asked  of  me,  with  a  loaded  pistol  at 
my  breast,  whether  or  not  I  had  written  again  after  receiving  your 
letter,  I  could  not  tell!  So  in  case  I  did  not,  I  write  to-night,  while 
I  have  a  little  breathing-time. 

Lord  Ashburton,  whom  we  had  been  led  to  suppose  out  of 
danger,  made  no  progress  in  convalescence  and  then  began  to  sink. 
Lady  A.,  who  has  had  the  news  of  her  mother's  death  since  his 
illness,  was  alone  to  nurse  him  day  and  night.  Her  sister,  who  had 
gone  to  her  at  Paris,  was  obliged  to  hurry  back  to  London,  to 
attend  to  her  own  husband,  who  is  confined  to  bed.  She  told  me  I 
was  the  only  other  person  whom  her  sister  (Lady  A.)  would  like  to 
have  beside  her.  Would  1  write  and  ask  if  I  might  come?  It  was 
a  serious  undertaking  for  me,  at  this  season,  who  had  never  crossed 
the  Channel,  and  suffering  so  from  sailing,  and  whose  household 
affairs  were  in  such  a  muddle;  a  servant  to  go  away  and  no  one 
yet  found  to  replace  her — but  what  else  could  I  do  but  go  to  her  if 
she  would  have  me?  Mr.  C,  too,  thought  I  could  do  nothing  else. 
So  I  wrote  and  offered  to  come  immediately,  and  you  may  think  if 
I  have  not  been  perfectly  bewildered  while  waiting  her  answer — 
'  seeing  servants,'  as  the  phrase  is,  all  the  while.  This  morning  I 
had  a  few  hurried  lines  from  her — No — I  was  not  to  come,  '  it  could 
do  her  no  good  and  would  knock  me  up ; '  for  the  rest,  she  was 
'  past  all  human  help,'  she  said,  '  and  past  all  sympathy.'  And  the 
poor  dear  soul  had  drawn  her  pen  through  the  last  words.  So  like 
her,  that  she  might  not  seem  unkind,  even  in  her  agony  of  grief 
and  dread  she  thought  of  that. 

Their  doctor's  last  two  letters  to  me  were  very  despondent,  and 
neither  to-day  nor  yesterday  has  there  been  any  word  from  him,  as 
there  would  have  surely  been,  could  he  have  imparted  a  grain  of 
hope.  We  dread  now  that  the  next  post  will  bring  the  news  of  our 
dear  Lord  Ashburton's  death.  Carlyle  will  lose  in  him  the  only 
friend  he  has  left  in  the  world,  and  the  world  will  lose  in  him  one 
of  the  purest-hearted,  most  chivalrous  men  that  it  contained. 
There  are  no  words  for  such  a  misfortune. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  185 

Meanwhile  one's  own  poor  little  life  struggles  on,  with  its  daily 
petty  concerns,  as  well  as  its  great  ones.  About  these  eggs,  which 
mustn't  be  neglected,  if  the  solar  system  were  coming  to  a  stand — 
I  do  not  think,  dear,  it  was  the  fewness  of  the  eggs  that  kept 
them  safe  so  much  as  the  plentifulness  of  the  hay.  Depend  on 
it,  your  woman's  plan  of  making  the  eggs  all  touch  each  other 
was  a  bad  one.  "We  have  still  eggs  for  a  week — and  then?  I  know 
of  two  hens  in  the  neighbourhood  that  have  begun  to  lay,  but 
they  do  it  so  irregularly,  so  I  mustn't  trust  to  them.  I  don't  think 
it  would  be  safe  to  send  the  butter  and  eggs  in  the  same  box ;  a 
coarse  basket  would  do  as  well  as  a  box  for  the  eggs — the  diificulty 
of  getting  them  sent  doesn't  seem  to  be  the  carriage  so  much  as 
things  to  pack  them  in.  If  we  were  but  nearer,  I  might  send  what 
the  Addiscombe  gardener  calls  the  empties  back  again  at  trifling 
cost.  I  must  inquire  what  it  would  cost  to  send  empty  baskets,  as 
it  is;  I  could  take  them  myself  to  the  ofiice. 

Oh  dear  me !  what  a  pleasure  it  is  when  one  is  away  from  home 
and  has  no  servants  to  manage,  and  no  food  to  provide.  Mr.  C. 
gets  more  and  more  difficult  to  feed,  and  more  and  more  impatient 
of  the  imperfections  of  human  cooks  and  human  housewives.  I 
sometimes  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  run  away.  But  the  question 
always  arises,  where  to? 

Kind  regards  to  Jamie  and  the  girls.     What  a  pleasant  time  I 

had  with  you  all,  those  nice  evening  drives! — Carlaverock  Castle  1 

How  like  a  beautiful  dream  it  all  is,  when  I  look  back  on  it  from 

herel 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 
"LETTER  260. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  Nov.  21, 1862. 
Dearest  Mary, — The  last  of  the  four  notes  I  inclosed,  which  had 
come  a  few  hours  before  I  wrote  to  you,  made  us  expect  the  worst; 
and  as  the  day  went  on,  we  could  not  help  expecting  the  worst  with 
more  and  more  certainty.  Tlie  same  night  we  were  talking  very 
sadly  of  Lord  Ashburton,  almost  already  in  the  past  tense;  Mr.  C. 
saying,  'God  help  me!  since  I  am  to  lose  liim,  the  kindest,  gentlest, 
friendliest  man  in  my  life  here!  I  may  say  the  one  friend  i  have  in 
the  world! '  and  I,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  room,  as  my  way 
is  when  troubled  in  mind,  had  just  answered,  '  It's  no  use  going  to 


186  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

bed  and  trying  to  sleep,  in  this  suspense!'  when  the  door  opened 
and  a  letter  was  handed  me.  It  was  from  Paris,  a  second  letter 
that  day!  I  durstn't  open  it.  Mr.  C.  impatiently  took  it  from  me, 
but  was  himself  so  agitated  that  he  couldn't  read  it,  when  he  had 
it.  At  last  he  exclaimed,  '  "Better!"  I  see  the  one  word  "  better," 
nothing  else!  look  there,  is  not  that  "  better"? '  To  be  sure  it  was! 
and  you  may  imagine  our  relief!  and  our  thankfulness  to  Lady  A. 
and  Mrs.  Austruther  for  not  losing  a  moment  in  telling  us!  The 
letters  go  on  more  and  more  favourable.  The  doctors  say  '  they 
cannot  understand  it.'  When  do  these  grand  doctors  understand 
anything?  But  no  matter  about  them,  so  that  he  is  recovering, 
whether  they  understand  it  or  not! 

I  may  now  tell  you  of  my  household  crisis,  which  has  been 
happily  accomplished.  Maria  has  departed  this  scene,  and  little 
'Flo'(!)  has  entered  upon  it;  not  a  little  dog,  as  you  might  fancy 
from  the  name,  but  a  remarkably  intelligent,  well-conditioned  girl 
'between  fourteen  and  fifteen,  who  was  christened  '  Florence ' — too 
long  and  too  romantic  a  name  for  household  use!  She  is  so  quick 
at  learning  that  training  her  is  next  to  no  trouble.  And  Mr.  C.  is 
so  pleased  with  the  clever  little  creature,  that  he  has  been  much 
less  aggravating  than  usual  under  a  change.  Maria  wished  to  make 
me  a  scene  at  parting  (of  course).  But  I  brutally  declined  partici- 
pating in  it,  so  she  rushed  up  to  the  study  with  her  tears  to  Mr.  C, 
who  was  '  dreadfully  sorry  for  the  poor  creature.'  The  '  poor  crea- 
ture '  had  been  employing  her  mind  latterly  in  impressing  on  Eliza- 
beth, who  is  weak  enough  to  believe  what  mischief-makers  tell  her, 
rather  than  the  evidence  of  her  own  senses,  that  she  was  going  to 
be  overworked  (!)  with  only  an  untrained  girl  instead  of  a  fine  lady 
housemaid  for  fellow-servant,  and  in  making  herself  so  charming 
and  caressing  for  Elizabeth  that  her  former  tyrannies  were  forgot- 
ten; and  Elizabeth,  who  had  looked  quite  happy  at  the  idea  of 
Maria's  going  'and  a  girl  under  her,'  turned  suddenly  round  into 
wearing  a  sullen  look  of  victimhood,  and  declining  silently  to  give 
me  the  least  help  in  training  the  girl!  All  the  better  for  the  girl; 
and  perhaps  also  all  the  better  for  me ! 

But  it  is  a  disappointment  to  find  that  my  Scotch  blockhead  is 
no  brighter  for  having  her  'Bubbly  Jock'  taken  off  her!  Such  a 
woman  to  have  had  sent  four  hundred  miles  to  one!  Mr.  C.  always 
speaks  of  her  as  'that  horse,'  'that  cow,'  'that  mooncalf!'  But 
upon  my  honour,  it  is  an  injustice  to  the  horse,  the  cow,  and  even 
the  mooncalf!    For  sample  of  her  procedure:  there  is  a  glass  door 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  187 

into  the  back  court  consisting  of  two  immense  panes  of  glass;  the 
cow  has  three  several  times  smashed  one  of  these  sheets  of  glass, 
through  the  same  carelessness,  neglecting  to  latch  it  up!  three 
times,  in  the  six  months  she  has  been  here!  and  nobody  before  her 
ever  smashed  that  door!  Another  thing  that  nobody  before  her 
ever  did,  in  all  the  twenty-eight  or  nine  years  I  have  lived  in  the 
house,  was  to  upset  the  kitchen  table!  and  smash,  at  one  stroke, 
nearly  all  the  tumblers  and  glasses  we  had,  all  the  china  breakfast 
things,  a  crystal  butter-glass  (my  mother's),  a  crystal  flower  vase, 
and  ever  so  many  jugs  and  bowls!  There  was  a  whole  washing-tub 
full  of  broken  things!  Surely  honesty,  sobriety,  and  steadiness 
must  have  grown  dreadfully  scarce  qualities,  that  one  puts  up  with 
such  a  cook;  especially  as  her  cooking  is  as  careless  as  the  rest  of 
her  doings.  No  variety  is  required  of  her,  and  she  has  been  taught 
how  to  do  the  few  things  Mr.  C.  needs.  She  can  do  them  when 
she  cares  to  take  pains;  but  every  third  day  or  so  there  comes  up 
something  that  provokes  him  into  declaring,  '  That  brute  will  be 
the  death  of  me!  It  is  really  too  bad  to  have  wholesome  food 
turned  to  poison.'  But  I  suppose  she  understands  herself  engaged 
by  the  half-year,  though  I  never  had  any  explanation  with  her,  as 
to  the  second  half-year.     And  so.  Heaven  grant  me  patience! 

What  a  pack  of  complaints!  but,  my  dear,  there  is  nobody  but 
you  that  I  would  think  of  making  them  to!  and  it  is  a  certain 
easing  of  nature  to  utter  them ;  so  forgive  the  mean  details. 

Love  to  the  Doctor. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Caelyle. 

LETTER  261. 
To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Nov.  1883. 
Dearest  Mary, — The  box  of  eggs  came  yesterday.  Another  per- 
fect success;  not  a  single  *igg  broken  or  cracked!  The  barrel 
arrived  to-day;  and  Mr.  C.  has  already  eaten  a  quarter  of  one  of 
the  fowls,  and  found  less  fault  witii  his  dinner  than  he  is  in  the 
habit  of  doing  now.  In  fact,  I  look  forward  to  his  dinner-time 
with  a  sort  of  panic,  which  the  event  for  most  part  justifies.  How 
I  wi.sh  this  long,  weary  book  were  done,  for  his  own  sake  and  for 
everybody's  near  him.  It  is  like  living  in  a  madhouse  on  the  days 
when  he  gets  ill  on  with  his  writing. 


188  LETTERS  AND   MEMORIALS  OF 

1  have  a  new  woman  coming  as  cook  next  Tuesday,  and  intense 
as  has  been  Mr.  C.'s  abhorrence  of  the  present  'mooncalf,'  'cow,' 
'brute-beast,' I  look  forward  with  trepidation  to  having  to  teach 
the  new-comer  all  Mr.  C.  's  things,  which  every  woman  who  comes 
has  to  be  taught,  whether  she  can  cook  in  a  general  way  or  not. 
If  the  kitchen  were  only  on  the  same  floor  with  the  room!  but  I 
have  to  go  down  three  pairs  of  stairs  to  it,  past  a  garden-door  kept 
constantly  open  in  all  weathers;  and  at  this  season  of  the  year,  with 
my  dreadful  tendency  to  catch  interminable  colds,  running  up  and 
down  these  stairs  teaching  bread-making,  and  Mr.  C.'s  sort  of  soup, 
and  Mr.  C.'s  sort  of  puddings,  cutlets,  &c.  &c.,  is  no  joke.  My 
one  constant  terror  is  lest  I  should  fall  ill  and  be  unable  to  go  down 
to  the  kitchen  at  all.     I  dream  about  that  at  nights.    Really 

If  I  were  dead, 

And  a  stone  at  my  head, 

I  think  I  should  be  6e-tter.i 

There  is  the  anxiety  about  dear  Lord  Ashburton  too;  that  has 
been  going  on  now  some  five  weeks;  sometimes  relieved  a  little, 
then  again  worse  than  ever.  I  have  a  note  in  my  pocket  at  this 
moment  which  Mr.  C.  does  not  know  of,  leaving  scarce  a  hope  of 
his  recovery.  As  it  was  not  from  the  doctor,  but  from  Lady  A.'s 
niece,  who  expresses  herself  very  confusedly,  and  might  have  made 
the  case  worse  than  it  is,  I  decided  not  to  unsettle  Mr.  C.  at  his 
writing  with  a  sight  of  it;  and  it  has  felt  burning  in  my  pocket  all 
day;  and  every  knock  at  the  door  makes  my  heart  jump  into  my 
throat,  for  it  may  be  news  of  his  death. 

As  this  letter  won't  reach  you  any  sooner  for  being  posted  to- 
night, I  will  keep  it  open  till  to-morrow  in  case  of  another  from 
Paris.     And  if  I  have  more  to  say  I  had  better  keep  that  till  to- 
morrow too.     I  write  with  such  a  weight  on  my  spirits  to-night. 
But  always 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

Jank  Carlyle. 

A  note  has  just  come  from  Lady  Ashburton's  sister  in  London, 
forwarding  a  telegram  just  received:  '  My  Lord  has  passed  a  better 
night.  Dr.  Quaia  thinks  him  uo  worse. '  So  there  is  still  hope — 
for  those  who  have  a  talent  for  hoping. 

'  Old  beggar's  rhyme  on  entering: 

'  I'm  a  poor  helpless  cralture, 
If  I  were,  &c better  (baiture  I) ' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  189 

LETTER  262. 

To  Mrs.  Russell. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  December  15, 1868. 
I  should  not  be  at  all  afraid  that  after  a  few  weeks  my  new  maid 
would  do  well  enough  if  it  weren't  for  Mr.  C.'s  frightful  impatience 
with  any  new  servant  untrained  to  his  ways,  which  would  drive  a 
woman  out  of  the  house  with  her  hair  on  end  if  allowed  to  act 
directly  upon  her !  So  that  I  have  to  stand  between  them,  and  imi- 
tate in  a  small,  humble  way  the  Roman  soldier  who  gathered  his 
arms  full  of  the  enemy's  spears,  and  received  them  all  into  his  own 
breast. '  It  is  this  which  makes  a  change  of  servants,  even  when  for 
the  better,  a  terror  to  me  in  prospect,  and  an  agony  in  realisation — 
for  a  time. 

LETTER  263. 
Mrs.  Braid,  Edinburgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Christmas  Day,  1862. 

Dearest  Betty, — Here  we  are,  you  and  I,  again  at  the  end  of  a 
year.  Still  alive,  you  and  I,  and  those  belonging  to  us  still  alive, 
while  so  many  younger,  healthier,  more  life-like  people,  who  be- . 
gan  the  year  with  us,  have  been  struck  down  by  death.  Can  we 
do  better,  after  thanking  God  that  we  are  still  spared,  than  embrace 
one  another  across  the  four  hundred  miles  that  lie  between,  in  the 
only  fashion  possible,  that  is  on  paper. 

'  Merry  Christmases,'  and  '  Happy  New  Years,'  are  words  that 
produce  melancholy  ideas  rather  than  cheerful  ones  to  people  of 
our  age  and  experience.  So  I  don't  wish  you  a  'mirth,' and  a 
'happiness,' which  I  know  to  have  passed  out  of  Christmas  and 
New  Year  for  such  as  us  for  evermore ;  passed  out  of  them  along 
with  so  much  else;  our  gay  spirits,  our  bright  hopes,  living  hearts 
that  loved  us,  and  the  fresh,  trusting  life  of  our  own  hearts.  It  is 
a  thing  too  sad  for  tears,  the  thought  how  much  is  past  and  gone, 
even  while  there  is  much  to  be  cared  for.  And  that  is  all  the  dis- 
mals I  am  going  to  indulge  in  at  this  writing. 

For  the  rest,  we  have  been  in  great  anxiety  about  Lord  Ashbur- 
ton.  It  is  six  weeks  past  on  Monday  that  he  has  been  hanging  be- 
twixt life  and  death,  at  an  hotel  in  Paris,  where  he  was  taken  ill  of 

>  Oh  heavens,  the  comparison !  it  was  too  true. 


190  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

inflammation  of  the  lungs,  on  his  way  to  Nice ;  and  all  the  time  I 
have  been  receiving  a  letter  from  Lady  A.'s  sister  by  her  directions, 
or  from  their  travelling  physician,  Dr.  Christison  (sou  of  that  Rob- 
ert Christisou,  who  used  to  visit  at  my  uncle  Benjamin's  in  your 
time),  every  day  almost,  sometimes  two  letters  in  one  day;  such 
constant  changes  there  have  been  in  the  aspect  of  his  illness!  The 
morning  letter  would  declare  him  'past  all  human  help,' and  in 
the  evening  would  come  news  of  decided  'improvement,' so  that 
we  couldn't  have  been  kept  in  greater  suspense  if  we  had  been  in 
the  same  house  with  him.  The  last  three  days  there  has  been  again 
talk  of  '  a  faint  hope,'  'a  bare  possibility  of  recovery.'  And  their 
London  physician,  who  has  been  five  times  telegraphed  for  to  Paris, 
called  here  to-day  immediately  on  his  return,  directed  by  Lady  A., 
to  go  and  tell  us  of  his  new  hopes.  When  I  was  told  Dr.  Quain 
was  in  the  drawing-room,  I  went  in  to  him  with  my  heart  in  my 
mouth,  persuaded  he  had  been  sent  to  break  the  news  of  Lord  A.'s 
death.  My  first  words  to  him  (he  had  never  been  in  the  house  be- 
fore) were,  'Oh,  Dr.  Quain,  what  has  brought  you  here?' — a  re- 
ception so  extraordinary  that  he  stood  struck  speechless,  which 
confirmed  me  in  my  idea,  and  I  said,  violently,  'Tell  me  at  once! 
you  are  come  to  tell  me  he  is  dead?  '  '  My  dear  lady,  I  am  come  to 
tell  you  no  such  thing,  but  quite  the  contrary!  I  am  come  by  Lady 
Asliburton's  desire  to  explain  to  you  the  changes  which  again  have 
raised  us  into  hope  that  he  may  recover.'  Then,  in  the  reaction  of 
my  fright,  I  began  to  cry.  What  a  fool  that  man  must  have 
thought  me!  Poor  Lady  A.,  who  is  devotedly  attached  to  her  hus- 
band, has  nursed  him  day  and  night,  till  she  is  so  worn  out  that  one 
could  hardly  recognise  her  (her  sister  writes).  Next  to  her  and 
their  child,  it  is  to  us,  I  believe,  that  he  would  be  the  greatest  loss. 
He  is  the  only  intimate  friend  that  my  husband  has  left  in  the 
world — his  dearest,  most  intimate  friend  through  twenty  years  now. 
I  told  you  in  my  last — did  I  not? — that  I  had  got  a  little  girl  of 
fifteen  in  place  of  my  fine-lady  housemaid;  and  that  the  East 
Lothian  woman,  instead  of  coming  out  in  a  better  light  when  left 
to  her  own  inspirations,  was  driving  Mr.  C.  out  of  his  senses  with 
her  blockheadisms  and  carelessness;  and  that,  much  as  I  disliked 
changes  in  the  dead  of  winter,  there  was  no  help  for  it,  but  to  send 
that  woman  back  to  a  part  of  God's  earth  where  she  had  been  '  well 
thought  of  (Jackie  Welsh  had  said),  and  where  slie  'could  get 
plenty  of  good  places  '  (tlie  Goose  herself  said).  A  sorry  account 
of  the  style  of  service  now  going  in  East  Lothian,  I  can  only  say. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  191 

I  hope  I  shall  be  more  comfortable  now — for  a  while,  at  least. 
The  little  girl  is  extremely  intelligent,  and  active,  and  willing;  is  a 
great  favourite  with  her  master,  thank  Heaven !  and  has  never  re- 
quired a  cross  word  from  me  during  the  six  weeks  or  so  that  she 
has  been  in  the  house.  The  other  is  a  girl  of  twenty-four,  with  an 
excellent  three  years'  character,  whom.  I  confess  I  chose  out  of  some 
dozen  that  offered,  more  by  character  than  outward  appearance;  she 
is  only  on  a  month's  trial  as  yet.  I  rather  hope  she  will  do;  but  it 
is  too  soon  to  make  up  my  mind  in  the  four  days  she  has  been 
with  me. 

I  inclose  a  post-office  order  for  a  sovereign  to  buy  what  you  need 
most,  and  wear  it  for  the  sake  of  your  loving 

Jane  W.  Cakltle. 

Best  regards  to  your  husband  and  dear  George. 

LETTER  264 
Dr.  BtisseU,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Jan.  6, 1863. 
My  dear  Dr.  Russell, — At  last  I  send  you  the  promised  photo- 
graph. It  goes  along  with  this  note.  You  were  meant  to  have  it 
on  New  Year's  Day ;  but  I  needed  to  go  out  for  a  sheet  of  millboard, 
and  then  to  cut  it  to  the  proper  size;  and  all  that,  strange  to  say, 
took  more  time  than  I  had  at  my  disposal.  You  wonder,  perhaps, 
what  a  woman  like  me  has  to  take  up  her  time  with.  Here,  for  ex- 
ample, is  one  full  day's  work,  not  to  say  two.  On  the  New  Year's 
morning  itself,  Mr.  C.  'got  up  off  his  wrong  side,'  a  bj^  no  means 
uncommon  way  of  getting  up  for  him  in  these  overworked  times! 
And  he  suddenly  discovered  that  his  salvation,  here  and  hereafter, 
depended  on  having,  'immediately,  without  a  moment's  delay,'  a 
beggarly  pair  of  old  cloth  boots,  that  the  street-sweeper  would 
hardly  have  thanked  him  for,  '  lined  with  flannel,  and  new  bound, 
and  repaired  generally ! '  and  '  one  of  my  women ' — that  is,  my  one 
woman  and  a  half — was  to  be  set  upon  tlie  job!  Alas!  a  regular 
shoemaker  would  have  taken  a  whole  day  to  it,  and  wouldn't  have 
undertaken  such  a  piece  of  work  besides!  and  Mr.  C.  scouted  the 
idea  of  employing  a  shoemaker,  as  subversive  of  his  autliority  as 
master  of  the  house.  So,  neither  my  one  woman,  nor  my  iialf  one, 
having  any  more  capability  of  repairing  'generally'  these  boots 
than  of  repairing  the  Great  Eastern,  there  was  no  help  for  me  but  to 


193  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

sit  down  on  the  New  Tear's  morning,  with  a  great  ugly  beast  of  a 
man's  boot  in  my  lap,  and  scheme,  and  stitch,  and  worry  over  it 
till  night;  and  next  morning  begin  on  the  other!  There,  you  see, 
were  my  two  days  eaten  up  very  completely,  and  unexpectedly;  and 
so  it  goes  on,  '  always  a  something '  (as  my  dear  mother  used  to 
say). 

The  accounts  from  Paris  continue  more  favourable.  But  they 
sound  hollow  to  me  somehow. 

Love  to  Mary. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Caklyle. 

LETTER  265. 

The  following  letter  has  been  forwarded  to  me  by  a  gentleman 
who  modestly  desires  that  his  name  may  not  be  mentioned. — J. 
A.  F. 

To  J.  T. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Feb.  11, 1863. 
I  wish,  dear  sir,  you  could  have  seen  how  your  letter  brightened 
up  the  breakfast-time  for  my  husband  and  me  yesterday  morning, 
scattering  the  misanthropy  we  are  both  given  to  at  the  beginning 
of  the  day,  like  other  nervous  people  who  have  'bad  nights.'  I 
wish  you  could  have  heard  our  lyrical  recognition  of  your  letter — 
its  ' beautiful  modesty,'  its  'gentleness,'  and  'genuineness;'  above 
all  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  the  tone  of  real  feeling  in  which 
my  husband  said,  at  last,  '  I  do  think,  my  dear,  that  is  the  very 
nicest  little  bit  of  good  cheer  that  has  come  our  way  for  seven 
years!'  It  might  have  been  thought  Mr.  C.  was  quite  unused  to 
expressions  of  appreciation  from  strangers,  instead  of  (as  is  the 
fact)  receiving  such  almost  every  day  in  the  year — except  Sundays, 
when  there  is  no  post.  But,  oh,  the  difference  between  that  gra- 
cious, graceful  little  act  of  faith  of  yours,  and  the  intrusive,  imper- 
tinent, presumptuous  letters  my  husband  is  continually  receiving, 
demanding,  in  return  for  so  much  'admiration,'  an  autograph  per- 
haps! or  to  read  and  give  an  opinion  on  some  long,  cramped  MS.  of 
the  writer's;  or  to — find  a  publisher  for  it  even!  or  to  read  some 
idiotic  new  book  of  the  writer's  [that  is  a  very  common  form  of 
letter  from  lady  admirers] — say  a  translation  from  the  German  (!) 
and  'write  a  review  of  it  in  one  of  the  quarterlies! '  'It  would  be 
a  favour  never  to  be  forgotten! '    I  should  think  so  indeed. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  193 

Were  I  to  show  you  the  'tributes  of  admiration'  to  Mr.  C.'s 
genius,  received  through  the  post  during  one  month,  you,  who  have 
consideration  for  the  time  of  a  man  struggling,  as  for  life,  with  a 
gigantic  task — you,  who,  as  my  husband  says,  are  '  beautifully  mod- 
est,' would  feel  your  hair  rise  on  end  at  such  assaults  on  a  man  un- 
der pretence  of  admiring  him;  and  would  be  enabled  perhaps, 
better  than  I  can  express  it  in  words,  to  imagine  the  pleasure  it 
must  have  been  to  us  when  an  approving  reader  of  my  husband's 
books  came  softly  in,  and  wrapped  his  wife  in  a  warm,  beautiful 
shawl,  saying  simply — 'There!  I  don't  want  to  interrupt  you,  but 
I  want  to  show  you  my  good-will;  and  that  is  how  I  show  it.' 

We  are  both  equally  gratified,  and  thank  you  heartily.  When 
the  shawl  came,  as  it  did  at  night,  Mr.  C.  himself  wrapped  it  about 
me,  and  walked  round  me  admiring  it.  And  what  think  you  he 
said?  He  said,  '  I  am  very  glad  of  that  for  you,  my  dear.  I  think 
it  is  the  only  bit  of  real  good  my  celebrity  ever  brought  you! ' 

Yours  truly, 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

The  letter  which  called  out  so  many  praises  was  this : — 

'Mrs.  Thomas  Carlyle.  Madam, — Unwilling  to  interrupt  your 
husband  in  his  stern  task,  I  take  the  liberty  of  addressing  you,  and 
hope  you  will  accept  from  me  a  woollen  long  shawl,  which  I  have 
sent  by  the  Parcel  Delivery  Co.,  carriage  paid,  to  your  address.  If 
it  does  not  reach  you,  please  let  me  know,  and  I  shall  make  in- 
quiries here,  so  that  it  be  traced  and  delivered.  I  hope  the  pattern 
will  please  you,  and  also  that  it  may  be  of  use  to  you  in  a  cold 
day. 

'  I  will  also  name  to  you  my  reason  for  sending  you  such  a  thing. 
My  obligations  to. your  husband  are  many  and  unnameably  great, 
and  I  just  wish  to  acknowledge  ihem.  AH  men  will  come  to  ac- 
knowledge this,  when  your  husband's  power  and  purpose  shall  be- 
come visible  to  them. 

'  If  high  respect,  love,  and  good  wishes  could  comfort  him  and 
you,  none  living  command  more  or  deserve  more. 

'  You  can  take  a  fit  moment  to  communicate  to  your  husband  my 
humble  admiration  of  his  goodness,  attainments,  and  great  gifts  to 
the  world;  which  I  wish  much  he  may  be  spared  to  see  the  world 
begin  to  appreciate. 

'  I  remain,  &c. , 

'J.T.' 

II.-9 


194  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  266. 

To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  Oill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Thursday,  Feb.  26, 1863. 

I  promised  you  a  voluntary  letter,  Mary  dear;  and  after  all  the 
waiting  you  are  going  to  get  a  begging  letter,  which  is  nothing  like 
so  pleasant  for  either  the  writer  or  the  receiver.  But  those  London 
hens!  they  are  creatures  without  rule  or  reason.  I  had  just  made 
an  arrangement  with  a  grocer,  who  keeps  a  lot  of  them,  to  let  me 
have  at  least  seven  new-laid  eggs  a  week;  and  the  very  day  the  bar- 
gain was  concluded  the  creatures  all  struck  work  again,  'except 
one  bantam! '  So  we  are  eating  away  at  yours,  without  any  hope 
of  reinforcement'.from  this  neighbourhood.  Jane,  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
C. ,  kindly  offered  to  send  a  second  supply  from  Dumfries !  but,  as 
she  does  not  lay  them  '  within  herself '  (as  an  old  lady  at  Hadding- 
ton used  to  say),  it  seems  more  natural  that  I  should  apply  to  you 
who  do!  We  have  still  enough  to  last  about  a  week.  There!  I 
have  done  ray  begging  at  the  beginning  of  my  letter,  instead  of  re- 
serving it  for  a  postscript,  the  common  dodge,  which  deceives  no- 
body.    And  now  my  mind  is  free  to  tell  any  news  I  may  have. 

You  would  hear  of  my  incomparable  small  housemaid  having 
turned  out  an  incomparable  small  demon.  People  sa}^  these 
wonderfully  clever  servants,  whether  old  or  young,  are  always  to 
be  suspected.  Perhaps ;  still  a  little  cleverness  is  much  nicer  than 
stupidity  to  start  with.  Anyhow  I  don't  need  to  live  in  vague  ap- 
prehensions about  either  of  my  present  servants  on  the  ground  of 
cleverness. 

But  I  am  well  enough  content  with  them  as  servants  go.  I  have 
arranged  things  on  a  new  footing,  which  I  am  in  hopes  ('  hope 
springing  eternal  in  the  human  mind ')  may  work  better  than  the 
old  one ;  I  have  made  the  cook,  who  came  in  place  of  the  Scotch 
one,  a  general  or  upper  servant;  she  does  all  the  work  upstairs,  the 
valeting,  &c.,  besides  the  cooking;  and  the  new  girl  is  a  sort  of 
kitchen-maid  under  her.  On  this  plan  there  cannot  be  the  same 
room  for  jealousies  and  squabbles  for  power,  which  have  tormented 
me  ever  since  I  kept  two. 

I  had  a  visit  the  other  day  which  turned  me  upside  down  with 
the  surprise  of  it!  I  was  putting  on  my  bonnet  to  go  out  early  in 
the  day,  when  Mary  came  to  say  there  was  '  a  lady  at  the  door, 
who  would  like  if  I  would  see  hor  for  a  few  minutes,"    The  hour 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  195 

being  unusual  for  making  calls,  and  the  message  being  over-modest 
for  a  caller,  I  thought  it  might  be  some  '  good  lady '  with  a  petition, 
a  sort  of  people  I  cannot  abide,  so  I  asked:  '  Is  she  a  lady,  do  you 
think?'  'Well— no,  ma'm— I  think  hardly;'  said  Mary.  'She 
wouldn't  give  her  name;  but  she  said  she  came  from  fishshire,  or 
something  like  that! '  'Fishshire?— could  it  be  Dumfriesshire? '  I 
said  with  a  veritable  inspiration  of  genius.  '  Show  her  up,'  and  I 
heard  a  heavy  body  passed  into  the  drawing-room.  I  hastened  in 
and  saw,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  a  figure  like  a  hay- 
stack, with  the  reddest  of  large  fat  faces,  the  eyes  of  which  were 
straining  towards  the  door.  The  woman  was  dressed  in  decent 
country  clothes  and  bore  no  resemblance  to  any  '  lady '  '  in  the 
created  world,'  but  looked  well-to-do.  I  stared;  I  didn't  know  the 
woman  from  Adam  (as  the  people  here  say)! 

But  she  spoke—'  Eh !  ! '  she  said ;  '  Lord  keep  me !  Is  that  you? ' 
— and  there  was  something  strangely  familiar  in  the  voice.  I  stared 
again  and  said — '  Nancy? ' — '  Atweel  and  it's  just  Nancy,'  answered 
the  haystack!  and  then  followed  such  shaking  of  hands,  as  if  we 
had  been  the  dearest  friends.  Do  you  know  who  it  was?  Not  the 
little  Nancy  we  used  to  call  'piggy'  at  Craigenputtock,  but  the 
great  coarse  Nancy  with  the  beard.  She  who  said  she  '  never 
kenned  folk  mac  sic  a  wark  aboot  a  bit  lee  as  we  did ! '  She  left 
Craigenputtock  to  marry  an  old  drunken  butcher  at  Thornhill, 
who,  happily  for  her,  died  in  a  few  years,  and  then  (as  she  phrased 
it)  she  '  had  another  chance,'  and  she  just  took  it,  as  she  '  thocht  it 
might  be  her  last,'  that  is,  she  married  again  a  very  respectable  man 
of  her  own  age,  who  is  something  in  the  Duke's  mines  at  Sanquhar. 
She  bore  him  one  son,  who  is  well  educated,  and  clerk  in  the  San- 
quhar bank.  He  had  been  at  Holm  Hill  on  some  bank  business 
just  before  I  was  there  last  year,  and  Mrs.  Russell  had  him  to  tea, 
and  said  he  was  a  '  nice  gentlemanly  lad.'  Well  done,  Nancy, 
beard  and  all  the  rest  of  it!  Her  man  had  been  married  before,  as 
well  as  herself,  and  had  a  son,  who  is  a  haberdasher  '  on  his  own 
account'  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  he  had  married,  and  his  wife 
was  being  confined;  and  Nancy  had  been  sent  up  for  to  '  take  care  of 

her.'     She  met  one  of  the  Miss  W s  on  the  road  before  leaving 

home,  and  made  her  '  put  down  my  address  on  a  bit  of  paper;'  and 
so  there  she  was — the  first  day  she  crossed  the  threshold  after  being 
in  London  five  weeks!  I  was  really  glad  to  sec  the  creature!  she 
looked  so  glad  to  see  me;  except  for  the  shock  my  personal  appear- 
ance manifestly  was  to  her!  I  gave  her  wine  and  cake,  and  a  little 
present,  and  she  went  away  in  a  transport. 


196  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

I  slept  away  from  home  last  night.  I  had  gone  to  a  place  called 
Ealing,  some  seven  miles  out  of  London,  to  visit  Mrs.  Oliphant — 
she  who  wrote  the  '  Life  of  Edward  Irving  ' — and  it  was  too  far  to 
come  back  at  night.  Indeed  I  never  go  out  after  sunset  at  this 
season.  She  is  a  dear  little  homely  woman,  who  speaks  the  broadest 
East  Lothian  Scotch,  though  she  has  lived  in  England  since  she  was 
ten  years  old !  and  never  was  in  East  Lothian  in  her  life,  except 
passing  through  it  in  a  railway  carriage !  !  !  But  her  mother  was  an 
East  Lothian  woman.  I  wish  to  heaven  I  had  any  place  out  of 
London,  near  hand,  that  I  could  go  to  when  I  liked ;  I  am  always 
so  much  the  better  for  a  little  change.  Life  is  too  monotonous, 
and  too  dreary  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  Frederick  the  Great! 
I  wonder  how  we  shall  live,  what  we  shall  do,  where  we  shall  go, 
when  that  terrible  task  is  ended. 

Kindest  regards  to  Jamie  and  the  bonnie  lassies. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  Wblsh  Cakltle. 


LETTER  267. 
To  Miss  Grace  Welsh,  Edinburgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  March  2, 1863. 

My  dear  Grace, — You  say  you  have  sent  me  'them,'  and  you 
have  only  sent  me  it;  and  you  say  '  the  head '  is  thought  a  good 
likeness,  and  I  have  got  only  a  standing  figure.  Was  it  an  involun- 
tary omission  on  your  part,  or  did  you  fall  away  from  your  good 
intention  to  send  '  them'?  Revise  it  if  you  did,  for  I  want  very 
much  to  see  the  likeuess  of  the  young  man  which  is  considered  the 
best.  I  should  like  much  to  see  the  young  man  himself;  for  me  as 
for  you,  a  certain  melancholy  interest  attaches  to  the  last  of  so 
hirge  and  so  brave  a  family.'  Don't  wait  till  you  have  time  and 
heart  to  write  me  another  nice  long  letter;  but  put  'the  head'  in 
an  envelope,  and  send  it  at  once. 

Mr.  C.  was  again  laid  hold  of  by  Mr.  A the  other  day  in  the 

King's  Road,  and  escorted  by  him  all  the  way  to  Regent  Street. 
'  Really  a  good,  innocent-hearted  man !  very  vulgar,  but  he  can't 
help  that,  poor  fellow ! '  I  have  never  once  met  him  in  the  street 
since  I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  him,  and  invite  him  to  call 

1  Robert  Welsh's  second  son:  he  too  is  dead;  died  shortly  before  her  own 
departm-e  out  of  vale  of  sorrow. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  197 

for  me,  which  Mr.  C.  hadn't  the  grace  to  do.  I  used  never  to  walk 
out  without  meeting  him ;  but  this  winter  I  have  taken  my  walk 
early  in  the  forenoon — when  he  is  busy,  I  suppose ;  just  once  I  saw 
him  pass  the  butcher's  door  when  I  was  giving  him  directions  about 
a  piece  of  beef.  He  had  a  pretty  young  lady  with  him,  on  whom 
he  was  '  beaming  '  benevolence  and  all  sorts  of  things. 

I  was  away  a  day  and  night  last  week  at  Ealing,  visiting  Mrs. 
Oliphant.  Even  that  short  '  change  of  air  and  scene '  did  me  good. 
On  the  strength  I  got  by  it  I  afterwards  went  to  a  dinner  party  at 
the  Rectory,  and  am  to  dine  out  again  to  meet  Dickens,  and  no- 
body else.  The  people  send  their  carriage  for  me,  and  send  me 
home;  so  in  this  mild  weather  the  enterprise  looks  safe  enough. 

Such  a  noise  about  that  '  Royal  marriage! '  I  wish  it  were  over. 
People  are  so  woefully  like  sheep — all  running  where  they  see 
others  run,  and  doing  what  they  see  others  do.  Have  you  heard 
of  that  wonderful  Bishop  Colenso?  Such  a  talk  about  him  too. 
And  he  isn't  worth  talking  about  for  five  minutes,  except  for  the 
absurdity  of  a  man  making  arithmetical  onslaughts  on  the  Penta- 
teuch, with  a  bishop's  little  black  silk  apron  on! 

Dear  love  to  you  all.  Your  affectionate 

Jeannie  W.  Cakltle. 


LETTER  268. 
Miss  Grace  Welsh,  Craigenvilla,  Morningside,  Edinburgh. 

6  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  March  17, 1863. 
My  dear  Grace, — I  am  wanting  to  know  if  your  pains  keep  off. 
I  hardly  dare  to  hope  it  in  these  trying  east  winds,  which  are  the 
worst  sort  of  weather  for  that  sort  of  ailment.  The  last  ten  days 
have  been  horrid  with  us ;  all  the  worse  for  coming  after  such  a 
summery  February.  My  own  head  has  been  in  a  very  disorganised 
state  indeed.  The  cold  first  came  into  my  tongue,  swelling  it,  and 
making  it  raw  on  one  side,  so  that  for  days  I  had  to  live  on  slops, 
and  restrict  my  speech  to  monosyllables;  then  it  got  into  my  jaws 
and  every  tooth  in  my  mouth;  and  that  is  the  present  state  of  me. 
I  am  writing  with  my  pocket-handkerchief  tied  over  my  lower  face, 
and  my  imagination  much  overclouded  by  weary  gnawing  pain 
there.  Decidedly  a  case  for  trying  your  remedy,  and  I  moan  to; 
have  been  thinking  of  realising  some  chlorodyne  all  the  week.  But 
either  it  has  been  too  cold  for  me  to  venture  up  to  the  druggist's  in 
Sloane  Square,  or  I  have  had  to  go  somewhere  else. 


198  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

It  is  a  comfort  to  reflect,  anyhow,  that  I  have  not  brought  these 
aches  on  myself  by  rushing  '  out  for  to  see '  the  new  Princess,  as 
the  rest  of  the  world  did,  or  to  see  the  illuminations.  I  had  an 
order  sent  me  from  Paris  for  seats  for  myself  and  '  a  friend '  in  the  bal- 
cony erected  at  Bath  House — the  best  for  seeing  in  the  whole  line  of 
the  procession.  But,  first,  I  have  no  taste  for  crowds;  and,  secondly, 
I  felt  it  would  be  so  sad,  sitting  there,  when  the  host  and  hostess 
were  away  in  snob  sickness  and  sorrow ;  and,  thirdly,  I  was  some- 
what of  Mr.  C.'s  opinion:  That  this  marriage,  the  whole  nation  was 
running  mad  after,  was  really  less  interesting  to  every  individual  of 
them  than  setting  a  hen  of  one's  own  on  a  nest  of  sound  eggs  would 
be! 

The  only  interest  I  take  in  the  little  new  Princess  is  founded  on 
her  previous  poverty  and  previous  humble,  homely  life.  I  have 
heard  some  touching  things  about  that  from  people  connected  with 
the  Court.  "When  she  was  on  her  visit  to  the  Queen  after  her  engage- 
ment, she  always  wore  a  jacket.  The  Queen  said,  '  I  think  you 
always  wear  a  jacket;  how  is  that?'  'Ob,' said  little  Alexandra, 
'  I  wear  it  because  it  is  so  economical.  You  can  wear  it  with  any 
sort  of  gown;  and  you  know  I  have  always  had  to  make  my  own 
gowns.  I  have  never  had  a  lady's-maid,  and  my  sisters  and  I  all 
made  our  own  clothes;  I  even  made  mj'  bonnet!'  Two  or  three 
days  after  the  marriage  she  wrote  to  her  mother;  '  I  am  so  happy! 
I  have  just  breakfasted  with  Bertie'  (Albert,  her  husband);  'and  I 
have  on  a  white  muslin  dressing-gown,  beautifully  trimmed  with 
pink  ribbon.'  Her  parents  were  not  so  rich  as  most  London  shop- 
keepers ;  had  from  seven  hundred  to  a  thousand  a  year.  That  in- 
terests me;  and  I  also  feel  a  sympathy  with  her  in  the  prospect  of 
the  bother  she  will  have  by-and-by. 

You  have  never  found  the  missing  photograph?  I  am  so  sorrj 
about  it.  Please  write,  ever  so  little;  but  I  want  to  know  if  you 
keep  free  of  pain.  I  am  not  up  to  a  long  letter.  I  am  glad  you  are 
going  to  the  Bridge  of  Allan.  It  will  do  Ann  good  for  certain,  and 
you  probably;  and  you  will  be  able  to  judge  of  Grace's  '  health  with 
your  own  eyes,  which  are  better  than  other  people's  reports. 

I  have  seen  nothing  of  Mrs.  George  "^  lately,  though,  of  course, 
she  would  be  in  at  the  show.     Love  to  you  all. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 


^  One  of  Robert  Welsh's  daughters  who  also  died. 
2  Welsh  (of  Richmond). 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE  199 

LETTER  269. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  March  21,  1863. 

Yes,  my  dear,  the  Doctor  was  right;  the  cold  in  my  mouth  was 
symptomatic  of  nothing  but  just  cold  in  the  mouth!  I  was  afraid 
myself,  for  some  days,  it  might  turn  to  a  regular  influenza;  the 
only  time  I  ever  had  the  same  sort  of  thing  as  bad  before  being  in 
the  course  of  that  dangerous  influenza  I  had  a  good  many  years 
ago,  when  I  had  first  to  call  in  Mr.  Barnes.  But  I  have  got  off  with 
the  ten  days  of  sore  tongue  and  faceache,  which  is  almost  cured  by 
the  west  wind  we  have  had  for  the  last  two  days. 

My  aunt  Grace  has  '  suffered  martyrs '  (as  a  French  friend  of 
mine  used  to  express  it)  from  faceache,  and  pains  of  the  head,  dur- 
ing this  last  winter;  and  cured  herself  (she  believes)  in  a  day 
by  the  new  pet  medicine  chlorodyne.  She  was  in  an  agony  that 
could  no  longer  be  borne,  and  invested  half-a-crown  in  a  small  bot- 
tle of  chlorodyne;  and  took  ten  drops  every  two  hours,  till  she  had 
taken  as  manj' as  fifty;  and  then  fell  into  a  refreshing  sleep,  and 
(when  she  wrote)  had  had  no  return  of  the  pain  for  three  weeks. 
I  haven't  much  faith  in  medicines  that  work  as  by  miracle;  and  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  her  pain,  having  reached  its  height,  had 
been  ready  to  subside  of  itself  when  the  chlorodyne  was  taken. 
Still,  as  there  might  be  some  temporary  relief,  more  or  less,  in 
the  thing,  I,  too,  invested  in  a  small  phial,  and  took  ten  drops  when 
I  was  going  to  bed  one  night;  and  the  only  effect  traceable  in  my 
case  was  a  very  drj'  dirty  mouth  next  morning.  To  the  best  of  my 
taste,  it  was  composed  of  chloroform,  strong  peppermint,  and  some 
other  carminatives.  Has  the  Doctor  used  it?  The  apothecary  here 
told  me  it  was  not  sold  much  by  itself,  but  that  a  great  deal  was 
used  in  the  doctors'  prescriptions. 

Did  1  tell  you  that  Mr.  C.'s  horse  came  down  with  him  one  day, 
and  cut  its  knees  to  the  bone,  and  had  been  sold  for  nine  pounds! 
It  cost  fifty,  and  was  cheap  at  that.  My  aunt  Grace  writes,  that 
'Mrs.  Fergusson  is  still  praying  diligently  for  Mr.  C,  and  that  per- 
haps it  was  due  to  her  prayers  that  Mr.  C.  was  not  hurt  on  that 
occasion!  1' 

Your  ever  affectionate 

J.  W.  Caklyle. 


SOO  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  270. 
Mrs.  Braid,  Oreen  End,  Edinburgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  May  22, 1863. 

My  own  Betty,  — I  am  wearying  for  some  news  of  you.  I  never 
could  lay  that  proverb  '  No  news  is  good  news '  sufficiently  to  heart. 
Whenever  I  am  feeling  poorly  myself  (and  I  should  he  almost 
ashamed  to  say  how  often  that  is  the  case),  I  fall  to  fancying  that 
you  are  perhaps  ill,  and  nobody  to  tell  me  of  it,  and  I  so  far  away ! 
It  is  so  stupid  of  Ann  and  Grace,  who  take  so  much  fatigue  on 
themselves,  in  visiting  about  in  their  'district,*  and  attending  all 
sorts  of  meetings,  that  they  don't  take  a  walk  out  of  their  district 
now  and  then  to  see  how  you  are  going  on,  and  tell  me  when  they 
write.  Some  news  of  Betty  would  make  a  letter  from  them  infi- 
nitely more  gratifying  than  anything  they  can  say  about  Dr. 
Candlish,  and  this  and  the  other  preacher  and  pray-er;  and  would 
certainly  inspire  me  with  more  Christian  feelings.  But,  once  for 
all,  it  is  their  way,  and  there  is  no  help  for  it. 

"When  I  came  in  from  a  drive  one  day  lately,  I  was  told  *  a  per- 
son'  was  waiting  for  me ;  and,  on  opening  the  dining-room  door, 
where  the  '  person '  had  been  put  to  wait,  I  saw,  sitting  facing  me, 

Helen  D ,  the  Sunny  Bank  housemaid.      It  was  such  a  surprise! 

I  never  liked  Helen  so  well  as  Marion,  the  cook;  but  anyone  from 
dear  old  Sunny  Bank  was  a  welcome  sight  to  me  now.  She  has 
been  for  some  years  in  charge  of  some  children,  at  a  clergyman's  in 
Hampshire,  and  was  passing  through  London  with  the  children 
and  their  father,  who  was  returned  from  India,  on  their  way  to  an 
aunt's  near  Peebles.  She  would  go  on  to  Haddington,  she  said, 
'  just  to  look  in  on  them  all,  but  she  wouldn't  like  to  stay  there 
now — oh,  no!'  She  was  grown  very  stout  and  consequential.  I 
took  her  into  my  bedroom  to  show  her  my  picture  of  Sunny  Bank, 
which  hangs  there,  and  another  of  the  Nungate  Bridge;  and,  while 
looking  about,  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  'I  declare  there  is  Mrs. 
Braid ! '  You,  too,  are  framed  in  a  gilt  frame,  and  hung  on  the 
wall.  The  likeness  must  be  very  good  that  she  knew  you  at  once, 
for  she  had  only  seen  you  twice,  she  said,  '  when  you  came  to 
breakfast.'  Her  fine  talk  will  astonish  the  Haddington  people 
when  she  'looks  in  upon  them.'  She  spoke  very  respectfully  of 
Miss  Donaldson;  '  Miss  Jess,'  she  said,  '  hadn't  the  same  balance  of 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  201 

mind  that  Miss  Donaldson  had ! '  But  she  was  no  favourite  with 
Miss  Jess,  and  knew  it. 

Poor  Jackie  Welsh  has  lost  her  aunt,  who  had  been  more  than  a 
mother  to  her  all  her  life ;  and  she  seems  quite  crushed  to  the  earth 
with  her  grief.  No  wonder;  she  is  so  much  in  need  of  some  one  to 
sympathise  with  her,  and  nurse  her  in  her  frequent  illnesses;  and 
that  one  aunt  was  the  only  person  on  earth  that  she  felt  to  belong 
to,  and  that  belonged  to  her.  Her  mother  is  still  alive;  but  her 
mother  has  never  done  anything  for  her  but  what  she  had  better 
have  left  alone — brought  her  into  being!  And  now  she  (the 
mother)  is  past  being  any  good  to  anybody — quite  frail  and  stupe- 
fied. 

Oh,  Betty!  do  you  remember  the  little  green  thing  that  I  left  in 
your  care  once  while  I  was  over  in  Fife?  And  when  I  returned 
you  had  transplanted  it  into  a  yellow  glass,  which  I  have  on  my 
toilet-table  to  this  hour,  keeping  my  rings,  &c.,  in  it.  Well!  I 
must  surely  have  told  you  long  ago  that  the  little  thing,  with  two 
tiny  leaves,  from  my  father's  grave,  had,  after  twelve  months  in 
the  garden  at  Chelsea,  declared  itself  a  gooseberry-bush!  It  has 
gone  on  flourishing,  in  spite  of  want  of  air  and  of  soil,  and  is  now 
the  prettiest  round  bush,  quite  full  of  leaves.'  I  had  several  times 
asked  our  old  gardener  if  there  is  nothing  one  could  do  to  get  the 
bush  to  bear,  if  it  were  only  one  gooseberry;  but  he  treated  the 
case  as  hopeless.  'A  poor  wild  thing.  No;  if  you  want  to  have 
gooseberries,  ma'am,  better  get  a  proper  gooseberry -bush  in  its 
place!  The  old  Goth!  He  can't  be  made  to  understand  that  things 
can  have  any  value  but  just  their  garden  value.  He  once,  in  spite 
of  all  I  could  beg  and  direct,  rooted  out  a  nettle  I  had  brought 
from  Crawford  Churchyard,  and  with  infinite  pains  got  to  take  root 
and  flourish.  But,  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  one  day  Lizzy,  my 
yoiuigest  maid,  came  running  in  from  the  garden  to  ask  me  had  I 
seen  the  three  little  gooseberries  on  the  gooseberry-bush?  I  rushed 
out,  as  excited  as  a  child,  to  look  at  them.  And  there  they  were — 
three  little  gooseberries,  sure  enough!  And  immediately  I  had 
settled  it  in  my  mind  to  send  you  one  of  them  in  a  letter  when  full 
grown.  But,  alas!  whether  it  was  through  too  much  staring  at 
them,  or  too  much  east  wind,  or  through  mere  delicacy  in  '  the 
poor  wild  tiling,'  I  can't  tell;  only  the  result,  that  the  three  bits  of 
gooseberries,  instead  of  growing  larger,  grew  every  day  less,  till 

'  It  still  stands  there,  green  and  leafy,  and  with  berries;  how  strange  and 
memorable  to  me  now  1 
U.— 9* 


202  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

they  reached  the  smallness  of  pin-heads,  and  then  dropped  on  the 
ground !    I  could  have  cried  when  the  last  one  went. 

You  remember  my  little  Charlotte?  I  had  a  visit  from  her  yes- 
terday; and  she  looks  much  more  sedate  and  proper  than  when  I 
had  to  put  her  away.  She  is  '  third  housemaid  at  the  Marquis  of 
Camden's,'  and  lives  in  the  country,  which  is  good  for  her.  She 
sent  her  compliments  to  'Betty.' 

My  present  pair  of  girls  go  on  very  peaceably.  They  are  neither 
of  them  particularly  bright ;  but  they  are  attentive,  and  willing, 
and  well  behaved.  I  often  look  back  with  a  shudder  over  the  six 
months  of  that  East  Lothian  Elizabeth !  Her  dinners  blackened  to 
cinders!  her  constant  crashes  of  glass  and  china!  her  brutal  man- 
ners! her  lumpish  insensibility  and  ingratitude!  And  to  think  that 
that  woman  must  have  been  considered  above  the  average  of  East 
Lothian  servants,  or  Jackie  Welsh  wouldn't  have  sent  her  to  me. 
What  an  idea  it  gives  one  of  the  state  of  things  in  East  Lothian! 

And  now  good-bye,  Betty,  dear.  There  is  a  long  letter  for  you; 
which  will,  I  hope,  soon  draw  me  a  few  lines  from  you  in  return. 
I  am  anxious  to  know  how  yourself,  and  your  husband,  and 
George  have  stood  these  cold  spring  weeks.  My  kind  regards  to 
them.     I 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jaive  Welsh  Cablylb. 


LETTER  271. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  HiU. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  June  3, 1863. 
I  had  something  to  tell  you  which  did  not  find  room  in  my  last 
letter.  The  name  of  Mrs.  Oliphant's  publisher  is  Blackett;  and  he 
has  a  smart  wife,  who  came  with  him  to  dinner  at  Mrs.  Oliphant's 
when  I  was  there.  They  were  very  (what  we  call  in  Scotland) 
'  up-making '  to  me,  and  pressed  me  to  visit  them  at  Ealing,  which 
I  hadn't  the  least  thought  of  doing.  Well,  some  weeks  ago,  Mr.  C. 
was  just  come  in  from  his  ride,  very  tired,  and,  to  do  him  justice, 
very  ill-humoured,  when  Iilary  put  her  head  in  at  the  drawing- 
room  door  and  said,  '  Mrs.  Blackett  wished  to  know  if  she  could 
see  me  for  a  few  minutes? '  I  went  out  hurriedly,  knowing  Mr. 
C.'s  temper  wouldn't  be  improved  by  hearing  of  people  he  didn't 
want  coming  after  me.  I  told  Mary  to  take  the  lady  into  the 
dining-room  (where  was  no  fire),  and  before  going  down  myself 


JANE  WELSH  CAKLYLE.  303 

put  a  shawl  about  me,  chiefly  to  show  her  she  musn't  stay.  On 
entering  the  room,  the  lady's  back  was  to  me ;  and  she  was  standing 
loobking  out  into  the  (so-called)  garden;  but  I  saw  at  once  it  wasn't 
the  Mrs.  Blackett  I  had  seen.  This  one  was  very  tall,  dressed  in 
deep  black,  and  when  she  turned  round,  she  showed  me  a  pale 
beautiful  face,  that  was  perfectly  strange  to  me!  But  I  was  no 
stranger  to  her  seemingly,  for  she  glided  swiftly  up  to  me  like  a 
dream,  and  took  my  head  softly  between  her  hands  and  kissed  my 
brow  again  and  again,  saying  in  a  low  dreamlike  voice,  'Oh,  you 
dear!  you  dear!  you  dear!  Don't  you  know  me?'  I  looked  into 
her  eyes  in  supreme  bewilderment.  At  last  light  dawned  on  me, 
and  I  said  one  word — 'Bessy?'  '  Yes,  it  is  Bessy ! '  And  then  the 
kissing  wasn't  all  on  one  side,  you  may  fancy.  It  was  at  last 
Bessy — not  Mrs.  Blackett,  but  Mrs.  B ,  — who  stood  there,  hav- 
ing left  her  husband  in  a  cab  at  the  door,  till  she  had  seen  me  first. 
They  were  just  arrived  from  Cheshire,  where  they  had  gone  to  see 
one  of  his  sons,  who  had  been  dangerously  ill,  and  were  to  start  by 
the  next  train  for  St.  Leonards.  They  had  only  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  to  stay.  He  is  a  good,  intelligent-looking  man;  and  while  he 
was  talking  all  the  time  with  Mr.  C,  Bessy  said  beautiful  things 
about  him  to  me,  enough  to  show  that  if  he  wasn't  her  first  love,  he 
was  at  least  a  very  superior  being  in  her  estimation.  They  pressed 
me  to  come  to  them  at  St.  Leornards,  and  I  promised  indefinitely 
that  I  would. 

About  a  fortnight  ago,  Bessy  walked  in  one  morning  after 
breakfast.  She  '  had  had  no  peace  for  thinking  about  me ;  I 
looked  so  ill,  she  was  sure  I  had  some  disease!  Had  I?'  I  told 
her  'None  that  I  could  specify,  except  the  disease  of  old  age,  gen- 
eral weakness,  and  discomfort.'  Reassured  on  that  head,  she  con- 
fided to  me  that  'I  looked  just  as  Mrs.  B had  looked  when 

she  was  dying  of  cancer!  !'  And  she  had  come  up,  certain  that  I 
had  a  cancer,  to  try  and  get  me  away  to  be  nursed  by  her,  and  at- 
tended by  her  husband.  Besides  she  had  heard  there  was  so  much 
small-pox  in  London;  'and  if  I  took  it,  and  died  before  she  had 
seen  me  again,  she  thought  she  would  never  have  an  hour's  happi- 
ness in  the  world  again!'  Oh,  Bessy,  Bessy!  just  the  same  old 
woman — an  imagination  morbid  almost  to  insanity!  '  Would  I  go 
back  with  her  that  night  anyhow?'  'Impossible!'  'Then  when 
would  I  come?  and  she  would  come  up  again  to  fetch -me! '  That 
I  would  not  hear  of;  but  I  engaged  to  go  so  soon  as  It  was  a  little 
warmer.    And  to-day  I  have  written  that  I  will  come  for  two  or 


204  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

three  days  on  Monday  next.     She  is  wearing  mourning  for  the 
mother  and  eldest  brother  of  her  husband,  who  have  both  died 
since  her  marriage. 
And  now  I  mustn't  begin  another  sheet. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

J.  W.  CABLTIiB. 


LETTER  272. 
To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Sunday,  July  5, 1863. 
My  dear  little  woman,— Every  day,  since  I  got  your  letter,  I  have 
put  off  answering  it  till  the  morrow,  in  hope  always  that  the  mor- 
row would  find  me  more  up  to  writing  an  answer  both  long  and 
pleasant.  But,  alas!  I  had  best  not  wait  any  longer  for  '  a  more 
convenient  season,'  but  just  write  a  stupid  little  note,  according  to 
my  present  disability;  as  a  time  when  my  head  will  be  clearer,  and 
my  heart  lighter,  and  my  stomach  less  sick,  is  not  to  be  calculated  on. 
I  went  some  three  weeks  ago  to  St.  Leonards,  the  pleasantest 
place  I  know ;  and  stayed  from  Monday  to  Saturday,  in  circum- 
stances the  most  favourable  to  health  that  could  be  desired.  The 
finest  sea  air  in  the  world— a  large,  airy,  quiet  house  close  on  the 
shore;  a  carriage  to  drive  out  in  twice  a  day;  a  clever  physician  for 
host,  who  dieted  me  on  champagne  and  the  most  nourishing  delica- 
cies; and  for  hostess,  a  gentle,  graceful,  loving  woman,  who,  be- 
sides being  full  of  interest  for  me  as  a  heroine  of  romance,  has  the 
more  personal  interest  for  me  of  having  been  my — servant,  about 
thirty  years  ago;  and  of  having  been  sincerely  mourned  by  me  as 
— dead ! 

Well,  I  returned  from  that  visit  quite  set  up;  and  the  improve- 
ment lasted  some  two  or  three  days.  Then  I  turned  as  sick  as  a 
dog  one  evening,  and  had  to  take  to  bed ;  and  the  sickness  not  abat- 
ing after  two  days,  during  which  time,  to  Mr.  C.'s  great  dismay, 
I  could  eat  nothing  at  all  (nothing  in  the  shape  of  illness  ever 
alarms  Mr.  C.  but  that  of  not  eating  one's  regular  meals),  Mr. 
Barnes  was  sent  for,  who  ordered  mustard  blisters  to  my  stomach, 
and  unlimited  soda-water  '  with  a  little  brandy  in  it.'  In  about  a 
week  I  was. on  foot  again— but  weak  as  a  dishclout!  And  that  is 
my  condition  to  the  present  hour.  I  don't  see  much  chance  of  bet- 
tering it  here — and  Mr.  C.  seems  determined  to  stick  to  his  '  work ' 
all  this  summer  and  autumn,  as  he  did  the  last.     It  is  very  bad  for 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  205 

him,  and  very  bad  for  the  work.  He  would  get  on  twice  as  fast  if 
he  wonld  give  himself  a  holiday.  But  there  is  no  persuading  him, 
as  you  know;  'vara  obstinate  in  his  own  wae!''  And  as  I  was 
away  last  autumn  a  whole  month  by  myself,  I  cannot  have  the  face 
to  leave  him  again  this  year,  unless  for  a  few  days  at  a  time,  when 
I  am  hardly  missed  till  I  am  back  again.  Besides,  the  present  ser- 
vants are  not  adapted  to  being  left  to  their  own  devices.  They  do 
very  well  with  overlooking  and  direction ;  and  the  week  I  was  at 
St.  Leonards  nothing  went  wrong;  but,  for  that  long,  they  could 
have  their  orders  for  every  day;  and  as  I  did  not  tell  them  for  cer- 
tain what  day  I  should  be  back,  there  was  a  constant  wholesome  ex- 
pectation of  my  return. 

Mr.  Carlyle  has  got  his  tent  up  in  the  back  area,  and  writes  away 
there  without  much  inconvenience,  as  yet,  from  the  heat.  He  has 
changed  his  dinner  hour  to  half -past  three  instead  of  seven;  then 
he  sleeps  for  an  hour,  and  then  goes  for  his  ride  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening. 

The  horse  Lady  Ashburton  sent  him  is  a  pretty,  svsdft  little  crea- 
ture, and  very  sure-footed,  which  is  the  first  quality  for  a  horse 
whose  rider  always  goes  at  a  gallop.  But  Mr.  C.  draws  many 
plaintive  comparisons  between  this  horse  and  poor  old  Fritz,  as  to 
moral  qualities.  This  one  '  shows  no  desire  to  please  him  what- 
ever; only  goes  at  its  best  pace  when  its  head  is  turned  towards  its 
own  stable !  Fritz  was  always  endeavouring  to  ascertain  his  wishes 
and  to  gain  his  approbation;  it  was  a  horse  of  very  superior  sense 
and  sensibility,  and  had  a  profound  regard  for  him.' 

Kindest  love  to  you  all. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jai^e  Caklyle. 

LETTER  273. 

Mrs.  Bussell,  Holm  Hill. 

6  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Wednesday  night,  Sept.  16, 1863. 
How  absurd  of  you,  my  dearest  Mary,  to  make  so  many  apolo- 
gies about  a  trifling  request  like  that!  Why,  if  you  had  asked  for 
twenty  autographs,  Mr.  C.  would  have  written  them  in  twenty 
minutes,  and  would  have  written  them  for  you  with  pleasure. 
Certainly,  my  dear,  as  I  have  often  said  before,  faith  is  not  your 
strong  point! 

I  Cumberland  man's  account  of  the  Scotch. 


206  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Well,  we  have  done  our  'outing,'  as  the  people  here  call  going 
into  the  country;  and  it  is  all  the  'outing'  we  are  likely  to  do  till 
next  summer  (if  we  live  to  see  next  summer),  unless  Lord  Ashbur- 
ton  should  be  well  enough,  and  myself  well  enough,  to  make 
another  expedition  to  the  Grange  during  the  winter. 

I  had  some  idea  of  going  to  Folkestone,  where  Miss  Davenport 
Bromley  has  a  house  at  present,  and  pressed  me  to  come  and  take 
some  tepid  sea-water  baths.  But  my  experience  of  the  wretched- 
ness of  being  from  home,  with  this  devilry  in  my  arm,  has  decided 
me  to  remain  stationary  for  the  present.  In  spite  of  the  fine  air 
and  beauty  of  the  Grange,  and  Lady  Ashbur  ton's  superhuman 
kindness,  I  had  no  enjoyment  of  anything  all  the  three  weeks  we 
stayed:  being  in  constant  pain,  day  and  night,  and  not  able  to 
comb  my  own  hair,  or  do  anything  in  which  a  left  arm  is  needed  as 
well  as  a  right  one !  I  think  I  told  you  I  had  had  pain  more  or  less 
in  my  left  arm  for  two  months  before  I  left  London.  It  was  trifling 
in  the  beginning;  indeed,  nothing  to  speak  of,  when  I  did  not 
move  it  backwards  or  upwards.  I  did  not  think  it  worth  sending 
for  Mr.  Barnes  about  it  at  first,  and  latterly  he  was  away  at  the 
sea-side  for  some  weeks,  having  been  ill  himself.  There  was 
nobody  else  I  liked  to  consult;  besides,  I  always  flatter  myself 
that  anything  that  ails  me  more  than  usual  is  sure  to  be  removed 
by  change  of  scene,  so  I  bore  on,  in  hope  that  so  soon  as  I  got  to 
the  Grange  the  arm  would  come  all  right.  It  did  quite  the  re- 
verse, however;  for  it  became  worse  and  worse,  and  I  was 
driven  at  last  to  consult  Dr.  Quain,  when  he  came  down  to  see 
Lord  A.  He  told  me,  before  I  had  spoken  a  dozen  words,  that 
it  wasn't  rheumatism  I  had  got,  but  neuralgia  (if  any  good 
Christian  would  explam  to  me  the  difference  between  these 
two  things  I  should  feel  edified  and  grateful).  It  had  been  pro- 
duced, he  said,  by  extreme  weakness,  and  that  I  must  be  stronger 
before  any  impression  could  be  made  on  it.  Could  I  take  quinine? 
1  didn't  know;  I  would  try;  so  he  sent  me  quinine  pills  from  Lon- 
don, to  be  taken  twice  a  day  if  they  gave  me  no  headache,  which 
they  don't  do,  and  an  embrocation  of  opium,  aconite,  camphor,  and 
chloroform  (I  tell  you  all  this  that  you  may  ask  your  Doctor  if  he 
thinks  it  right,  or  can  suggest  anything  else);  moreover,  I  was  to 
take  castor  oil  every  two  or  three  days.  I  have  been  following 
these  directions  for  a  fortnight,  and  there  is  certainly  an  improve- 
ment in  my  general  health.  I  feel  less  cowardly  and  less  fanciful, 
and  feel  less  disgust  at  human  food;  but  although  the  embrocation 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  207 

relieves  the  pain  while  I  am  applying  it,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
after,  it  is  as  stiff  and  painful  as  ever  when  left  to  itself. 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 

Jane  Caklyle. 

Of  all  these  dreary  sufferings  and  miseries,   which  had  been 
steadily  increasing  for  years  past,  I  perceive  now,  with  pain  and 
remorse,  I  had  never  had  the  least  of  a  clear  notion;  such  her  in- 
vincible spirit  in  bearing  them,  such  her  constant  effort  to  hide  them 
from  me  altogether.     My  own  poor  existence,  as  she  also  well  knew, 
was  laden  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  strength,  and  sunk  in  perpetual 
muddy  darkness,  by  a.  task  too  heavy  for  me — task  which  seemed 
impossible,  and  as  if  it  would  end  me  instead  of  I  it.     I  saw  no 
company,  had  no  companion  but  my  horse  (fourteen  miles  a  day, 
winter  time,  mainly  in  the  dark),  rode  in  all,  as  I  have  sometimes 
counted,  above  30,000  miles  for  health's  sake,  while  writing  that 
unutterable  book.     The  one  bright  point  in  my  day  was  from  half 
an  hour  to  twentv  minutes'  talking  with  her,  after  my  return  from 
those  thrice  dismal  rides,  while  I  sat  smoking  (on  the  hearthrug, 
with  my  back  to  the  jamb,  puffing  firewards — a  rare  invention!) 
and  sipping  a  spoonful  of  brandy  in  water,  preparatory  to  the  hour 
of  sleep  I  had  before  dinner.     She,  too,  the  dear  and  noble  soul, 
seemed  to  feel  that  this  was  the  eye  of  her  day,  the  flower  of  all 
her  daily  endeavour  in  the  world.     I  found  her  oftenest  stretched 
on  the  sofa  (close  at  my  right  hand,  I  between  her  and  the  tire), 
her  drawing-room  and  self  all  in  the  gracefullest  and  most  perfect 
order,  and  waiting  with  such  a  welcome;  ah,  me!  ah,  me!     She 
was  weak,  weak,  far  w^eaker  than  I  understood;  but  to  me  was 
bright  always  as  stars  and  diamonds;  nay,  I  should  say  a  kind  of 
cheery  sunshine  in  those  otherwise  Egyptian  days.     She  had  al- 
ways something  cheerful  to  tell  me  of  (especially  if  she  had  been 
out,  or  had  had  visitors);  generally  something  quite  pretty  to  re- 
port (in  her  sprightly,  quiet,  and  ever-genial  way).     At  lowest, 
nothing  of  unpleasant  was  ever  heard  from  her;  all  that  was  gloomy 
she  was  silent  upon,  and  had  strictly  hidden  away.     Once,  I  re- 
member, years  before  this,  while  she  suffered  under  one  of  her  bad 
influenzas  (little  known  to  me  how  bad).  I  came  in  for  three  succes- 
sive evenings,  full  of  the  '  Battle  of  Molwitz'  (which  I  had  at  last 
got  to  understand,  much  to  my  inward  triumph),  and  talked  to  her 
all  my  half  hour  about  nothing  else.     She  answered  little  ('  speak- 
ing not  good  for  me,'  perhaps);  but  gave  no  sign  of  want  of  inter- 
est—nay, perhaps  did  not  quite  want  it,  and  yet  confessed  to  me, 
several  years  afterwards,  her  principal  thought  was,  '  Alas,  I  shall 
never  see  this  come  to  print;  I  am  hastening  towards  death  instead! ' 
These  were,  indeed,  dark  duys  for  us  both,  and  still  darker  unknown 
to  us  were  at  hand.     One  evening,  probably  the  1st  or  2nd  of  Oc- 
tober, 1863— but  for  long  years  1  had  ceased  writing  in  my  note 
books,  and  find  nothing  marked  on  that  to  me  most  memorable  of 
dates— on  my  return  from  riding,  I  learned  rather  with  satisfaction 
for  her  sake  that  she  had  ventured  on  a  drive  to  the  General  Post 
OfBce  to  see  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Godby,  '  matron '  of  that  establish- 


208  LETTERS  AND   MEMORIALS  OF 

ment;  and  would  take  tea  there.  After  sleep  and  dinner,  I  was 
still  without  her;  'Well,  well,  I  thought,  what  a  nice  little  story- 
will  she  have  to  tell  me  soon!'  and  lay  quietly  down  on  the  sofa, 
and  comfortably  waited — still  comfortably,  though  the  time  (an 
hour  or  more)  was  longer  than  I  had  expected.  At  length  came 
the  welcome  sound  of  her  wheels;  I  started  up — she  rather  lingered 
in  appearing, — I  rang,  got  no  clear  answer,  rushed  down,  and,  oh, 
what  a  sight  awaited  me!  She  was  still  in  the  cab,  Larkin  speaking 
to  her  (Larkin  lived  next  door,  and  for  him  she  had  sent,  carefully 
saving  me!)  Oh,  Heavens!  and,  alas!  both  Larkin  and  I  were 
needed.  She  had  had  a  frightful  street-accident  in  St.  Martin's, 
and  was  now  lamed  and  in  agony!  This  was  the  account  I  got  by 
degrees. 

Mrs,  Godby  sent  a  maid-servant  out  with  her  to  catch  an  omni- 
bus; maid  was  stupid,  unhelpful,  and  there  happened  to  be  some 
excavation  on  the  street  which  did  not  permit  the  omnibus  to  come 
close.  Just  as  my  poor  little  darling  was  stepping  from  the  kerb- 
stone to  run  over  (maid  merely  looking  on),  a  furious  cab  rushed 
through  the  interval;  she  had  to  stop  spasmodically,  then  still  more 
spasmodically  try  to  keep  from  falling  flat  on  the  other  side,  and 
ruining  her  poor  neuralgic  arm.  In  vain,  this  latter  effort;  she  did 
fall,  lame  arm  useless  for  help),  and  in  the  desperate  effort  she  had 
torn  the  sinews  of  the  thigh-bone,  and  was  powerless  to  move  or 
stand,  and  in  pain  unspeakable.  Larkin  and  I  lifted  her  into  a 
chair,  carried  her  with  all  our  steadiness  (for  every  shake  was  mis- 
ery) up  to  her  bed,  where,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  good  Barnes, 
luckily  found  at  home,  made  appearance  with  what  help  there  was. 
Three  weeks  later,  this  letter  gives  account  in  her  own  words. 

The  torment  of  those  first  three  days  was  naturally  horrible;  but 
it  was  right  bravely  borne,  and  directly  thereupon  all  things  looked 
up,  she  herself,  bright  centre  of  them,  throwing  light  into  all  things. 
It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  in  a  few  days  she  seemed  to  be  almost 
happy,  contented  with  immunity  from  pain,  and  proud  to  have 
made  (as  she  soon  did)  her  little  bedroom  into  a  boudoir,  all  in  her 
own  likeness.  She  sent  for  the  carpenter,  directed  him  in  every- 
thing, had  cords  and  appliances  put  up  for  grasping  with  and  getting 
good  of  her  hand,  the  one  useful  limb  now  left.  It  was  wonderful 
what  she  had  made  of  that  room,  by  carpenter  and  housemaid,  in  a 
few  hours — all  done  in  her  own  image,  as  I  said.  On  a  little  table 
at  her  right  hand,  among  books  and  other  useful  furniture,  she 
gaily  pointed  out  to  me  a  dainty  little  bottle  of  champagne,  from 
which,  by  some  leaden  article  screwed  through  the  cork,  and  need- 
ing only  a  touch,  she  could  take  a  spoonful  or  teaspoonful  at  any 
time,  without  injuring  the  rest-  'Is  not  that  pretty?  Excellent 
champagne  (Miss  Bromley's  kind  gift),  and  does  me  good,  I  can  tell 
you.'  I  remember  this  scene  well,  and  that,  in  the  love  of  gentle 
and  assiduous  friends,  and  their  kind  little  interviews  and  minis- 
trations, added  to  the  hope  she  had,  her  sick  room  had  compara- 
tively an  almost  happy  air,  so  elegant  and  beautiful  it  all  was,  and 
her  own  behaviour  in  it  always  was.  Not  many  evenings  after  the 
last  of  these  two  letters,  I  was  sitting  solitary  over  my  dreary  Prus- 
sian books,  as  usual,  in  the  drawing-room,  perhaps  about  10  p.m., 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  209 

room  perhaps  (without  my  knowledge)  made  trimmer  than  usual, 
when  suddenly,  without  warning  given,  the  double  door  from  her 
bedroom  went  wide  open,  and  my  little  darling,  all  radiant  in  grace- 
ful evening  dress,  followed  by  a  maid  with  new  lights,  came  glid- 
ing in  to  me,  gently  stooping,  leaning  on  a  fine  Malacca  cane,  saying 
silently  but  so  eloquently,  '  Here  am  I  come  back  to  you,  dear! '  It 
was  among  the  bright  moments  of  my  life — the  picture  of  it  still 
vived  with  me,  and  will  always  be.  Till  now  I  had  not  seen  her  in 
the  drawing-room,  had  only  heard  of  those  tentative  pilgriminga 
thither  with  her  maid  for  support.  But  now  I  considered  the  vic- 
tory as  good  as  won,  and  everything  fallen  into  its  old  course  again 
or  a  better.  Blind  that  we  were!  This  was  but  a  gleam  of  sun- 
light, and  ended  swiftly  in  a  far  blacker  storm  of  miseries  than  ever 
before. 

That  '  bright  evening '  of  her  re-entrance  to  me  in  the  drawing- 
room  must  have  been  about  the  end  of  October  or  beginning  of  No- 
vember, shortly  following  these  two  letters,  '  Monday  evening,  No- 
vember 23 '  (as  I  laboriously  make  out  the  date) ;    '  the  F s, ' 

F and  his  wife,  the  pleasantest,  indeed  almost  the  only  pleas- 
ant evening  company  we  now  used  to  have ;  intelligent,  cheerful, 
kindly,  courteous,  sincere  (they  had  come  to  live  near  us,  and  we 
hoped  for  a  larger  share  of  such  evenings,  of  which  probably  this 
was  the  first?  Alas,  to  me,  too  surely  it  was  in  effect  the  last!) 
Cheerful  enough  this  evening  was;  my  darling  sat  latterly  on  the 

sofa,  talking  chiefly  to  Mrs.  F ;  the  F s  gone,  she  silently 

at  once  withdrew  to  her  bed,  saying  nothing  to  me  of  the  state  she 
was  in,  which  I  found  next  morning  to  have  been  alarmingly  mis- 
erable, the  prophecy  of  one  of  the  worst  of  nights,  wholly  without 
sleep  and  full  of  strange  and  horrible  pain.  And  the  nights  and 
days  that  followed  continued  steadily  to  worsen,  day  after  day,  and 
month  after  month,  no  end  visible.  It  was  some  ten  months  now 
before  I  saw  her  sit  with  me  again  in  this  drawing-room — in  body 
weak  as  a  child,  but  again  composed  into  quiet,  and  in  soul  beau- 
tiful as  ever,  or  more  beautiful  than  ever,  for  the  rest  of  her  ap- 
pointed time  with  me,  which  indeed  was  brief,  but  is  now  blessed 
to  look  back  upon,  and  an  unspeakable  favour  of  Heaven.     I  often 

tliink  of  that  last  evening  with  the  F s,  which  we  hoped  to  be 

the  first  of  a  marked  increase  of  such,  but  which  to  me  was  essen- 
tially the  last  of  all ;  the  F s  have  been  here  since,  but  with  her 

as  hostess  (in  my  presence)  never  more,  and  the  reflex  of  that  bright 
evening,  now  all  pale  and  sad,  shines,  privately  incessant,  into  every 
meeting  we  have. 

Barnes,  for  some  time,  said  the  disease  was  'influenza,  merely 
accidental  cold,  kindling  up  all  the  old  injuries  and  maladies,' 
and  promised  speedy  amendment;  but  week  after  week  gave  dis- 
mally contrarj^  evidence.  'Neuralgia! '  the  doctors  then  all  said, 
by  which  they  mean  they  know  not  in  the  least  what;  in  this  case, 
such  a  deluge  of  intolerable  pain,  indescribable,  unaidable  pain, 
as  I  had  never  seen  or  dreamt  of,  and  wliich  drowned  six  or  eight 
months  of  my  poor  darling's  life  as  in  the  blackness  of  very  death; 
her  recovery  at  last,  and  tlie  maimer  of  it,  an  unexpected  miracle 
to  me.     There  seemed  to  be  pain  in  every  muscle,  misery  in  every 


310  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

nerve,  no  sleep  by  night  or  day,  no  rest  from  struggle  and  desper- 
ate suffering.  Nobody  ever  known  to  me  could  more  nobly  and 
silently  endure  pain;  but  here  for  the  first  time  I  saw  her  van- 
quished, driven  hopeless,  as  it  were  looking  into  a  wild  chaotic 
universe  of  boundless  woe — on  the  horizon,  only  death  or  worse. 
Oh,  I  have  seen  such  expressions  in  those  dear  and  beautiful  eyes 
as  exceeded  all  tragedy!  (one  night  in  particular,  when  she  rushed 
desperately  out  to  me,  without  speech;  got  laid  and  wrapped  by 
me  on  the  sofa,  and  gazed  silently  on  all  the  old  familiar  objects 
and  me).  Her  pain  she  would  seldom  speak  of,  but,  when  she  did, 
it  was  in  terms  as  if  there  were  no  language  for  it;  'any  honest, 
pain,  mere  pain,  if  it  were  of  cutting  my  flesh  with  knives,  or  saw- 
ing my  bones,  I  could  hail  that  as  a  luxury  in  comparison! ' 

And  the  doctors,  so  far  as  I  could  privately  judge,  effected  ap- 
proximately to  double  the  disease.  We  had  many  doctors,  skilful 
men  of  their  sort,  and  some  of  them  (Dr.  Quain,  especially,  who 
absolutely  would  accept  no  pay,  and  was  unwearied  in  attendance 
and  invention)  were  surely  among  the  friendliest  possible;  but 
each  of  them — most  of  all  each  new  one — was  sure  to  effect  only 
harm,  tried  some  new  form  of  his  opiums  and  narcotic  poisons 
without  effect;  on  the  whole  I  computed,  'Had  there  been  no 
doctors,  it  had  been  only  about  half  as  miserable.'  Honest  Barnes 
admitted  in  the  end,  '  We  have  been  able  to  do  nothing.'  We  had 
sick-nurses,  a  varying  miscellany,  Catholic  '  Sisters  of  Mercy '  (ig- 
nominiously  dismissed  by  her  third  or  fourth  night,  the  instant 
she  found  they  were  in  real  substance  Papist  propagandists.  Oh, 
that  '3  A.M.' when  her  bell  awoke  me  too,  as  well  as  Maggie 
Welsh,  and  the  French  nun  had  to  disappear  at  once,  under  rugs 
on  a  sofa  elsewhere,  and  vanish  altogether  when  daylight  came!) 
Maggie  Welsh  had  come  in  the  second  week  of  December,  and 
continued,  I  think,  at  St.  Leonards  latterly,  till  April  ended.  De- 
cember was  hardly  out  till  there  began  to  be  speech  among  the 
doctors  of  sea-side  and  change  of  air :  the  one  hojje  they  continued 
more  and  more  to  say;  and  we  also  thinking  of  St.  Leonards  and 

our  Dr.    B and  bountiful   resources   there,    waited   only  for 

spring  weater,  and  the  possibility  of  flight  thither.  How,  in  all 
this  tearing  whirlpool  of  miseries,  anxieties,  and  sorrows,  I  con- 
trived to  go  on  with  my  work  is  still  an  astonishment  to  me.  For 
one  thing,  I  did  not  believe  in  these  doctors,  nor  that  she  (if  let 
alone  of  them)  had  not  yet  strength  left.  Secondly,  I  always 
counted  '  Frederick '  itself  to  be  the  prime  source  of  all  her  sor- 
rows as  well  as  my  own;  that  to  end  it  was  the  condition  of  new 
life  to  us  both,  of  which  there  was  a  strange  dull  hope  in  me.  Not 
above  thrice  can  I  recollect  when,  on  stepping  out  in  the  morning, 
the  thought  struck  me,  cold  and  sharp,  '  She  will  die,  and  leave 
thee  here!'  and  always  before  next  day  I  had  got  it  cast  out 
of  me  again.  And,  indeed,  in  all  points  except  one  I  was  as  if 
stupefied  more  or  less,  and  flying  on  like  those  migrative  swallows 
of  Professor  Owen,  after  my  strength  was  done  and  coma  or  dream 
had  supervened,  till  the  Mediterranean  Sea  was  crossed!  But  the 
time  altogether  looks  to  me  like  a  dim  nightmare,  on  which  it  is 
still  miserable  to  dwell,  and  of  which  I  will  after  this  endeavour 
only  to  give  the  dates. — T.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  211 

LETTER  374. 
To  Miss  Grace  Welsh,  EdinburgTi. 

5  Cheyne  Row,' Chelsea:  Tuesday,  Oct.  20, 1863. 

Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  dearest  Grace,  for  your  long,  most 
moving  letter.  It  is  not  because  of  it  that  I  write  to-day,  for  I 
was  meaning  to  write  to-day  at  any  rate;  indeed,  it  rather  makes 
writing  more  difflcult  to  me :  I  have  cried  so  over  it,  that  I  have 
given  myself  a  bad  headache  in  addition  to  my  other  lamings. 
But  a  little  letter  I  will  write  by  to-day's  post,  and  a  bigger  one 
when  I  am  more  able. 

I  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Mrs.  Craven,  in  answer  to  her  announce- 
ment of  that  dear  girl's  angel  death.  I  told  her  of  my  accident, 
and  was  trusting  to  her  telling  you ;  but  as  I  told  her  I  had  kept 
you  in  ignorance  of  it  in  the  beginning,  lest  Elizabeth  and  you  and 
Ann,'  with  j'^our  terrible  experience  of  such  an  accident,  might  be 
alarmed  and  distressed  for  me  more  than  (I  hoped)  there  would 
prove  cause  for;  she  thought,  perhaps,  I  wished  you  to  remain  un- 
aware of  it,  even  when  I  reported  myself  progressing  more  favour- 
ably than  could  have  been  predicted.  I  need  ]iot  go  into  the  Iioio 
of  the  fall ;  I  will  tell  you  all  '  particulars '  when  I  gain  more  facility 
in  writing;  enough  to  say  that  exactly  this  day  three  weeks  I  was 
plashed  down  on  the  pavement  of  St.  Martin-le-Grand  (five  miles 
from  home)  on  my  left  side  (the  arm  of  which  couldn't  break  the 
fall),  and  hurt  all  down  from  the  hip-joint  so  fearfully,  and  on  the 
already  lamed  shoulder  besides,  that  I  couldn't  stir;  but  had  to  be 
lifted  up  by  people  who  gathered  round  me  (a  policeman  among 
them)  and  put  into  a  cab.  Elizabeth  can  fancy  my  drive  home  (five 
miles),  and  the  getting  of  me  out  of  the  cab  and  upstairs  to  bed! 
"Wasn't  I  often  thinking  of  her  all  the  time? 

'  My '  doctor  came  immediately,  and  found  neither  breakage  of 
the  leg  nor  dislocatioon ;  but  the  agony  of  pain,  he  said,  wouklhave 
been  less  had  the  bone  broken :  I  thought  of  Elizabeth,  and  doubted 
that!  Still,  for  three  days  and  three  sleepless  nights  it  was  such 
agony  as  I  had  never  known  before;  after  that,  the  pain  went 
gradually  out  of  the  leg,  unless  when  I  moved  it,  for  some  bed 

'  Poor  Elizabeth  had  slipped  and  fallen  on  the  street;  dislocated  her  thigh- 
bone; got  it  wrong  set;  then,  after  long  months  of  misery,  undergone  a  set- 
ting of  it '  right  '—but  is  lame  to  this  day. 


212  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

operations,  &c.,  &c.  But  the  arm,  with  its  complication  of  sprain 
and  neuralgia,  has  given  me  a  sad  time,  till  these  last  two  days  that 
it  has  returned  almost  to  the  state  it  was  in  before  the  fall.  A 
week  ago  Mr.  Barnes  made  me  get  out  of  bed  for  fear  of  '  a  bad 
back,'  and  sit  on  end  on  a  sofa  in  my  bedroom,  like  Miss  Biffin  (the 
little  egg-shaped  woman  that  used  to  be  shown;  and  two  days  ago 
he  compelled  me  to  walk  a  few  steps,  supported  with  his  arms,  and 
to  do  the  same  thing  at  least  twice  a  day.  It  has  been  a  case  of 
'  lacerated  sinews; '  and  he  said  the  tendency  of  the  muscles  was  to 
contract  themselves  after  such  a  thing,  and  if  I  did  not  force  myself 
to  put  down  my  foot  now  and  then,  I  should  never  be  able  to  walk 
at  all!  Such  a  threat,  and  his  determined  manner,  enabled  me  to 
make  the  effort,  which  costs,  I  can  tell  you,  But,  at  whatever  cost 
of  pain  and  nervousness,  I  have  to-day  passed  through  the  door  of 
my  bedroom  (which  opens  into  the  drawing-room  luckily),  using 
one  of  the  maids  as  a  crutch ;  so  you  see  I  am  already  a  good  way 
towards  recovery,  for  which  I  feel,  every  moment,  deep  thankful- 
ness to  God.  To  have  experienced  such  agony,  and  to  be  delivered 
from  it  comparatively,  makes  one  feel  one's  dependence  as  nothing 
else  does. 

For  the  rest,  as  dear  Betty  is  always  saying,  '  I  have  mony  mer- 
cies.' My  servants  have  been  most  kind  and  unwearied  in  their 
attentions;  my  friends  more  like  sisters  or  mothers  than  common- 
place friends.  Oh,  I  shall  have  such  wonderful  kindnesses  to  tell 
you  of  when  I  can  write  freely!  My  third  cousin,  Mrs.  Godby,  and 
several  others,  wished  to  stay  with  me;  but  the  'nursing'  I  needed 
was  of  quite  a  menial  sort;  I  should  still  have  sought  it  from  my 
servants,  and  a  lady-nurse  would  only  have  given  them  more  to  do, 
and  been  dreadfully  in  the  way  of  Mr.  C.  My  great  object,  after 
getting  what  waiting  on  I  absolutely  needed,  has  been  that  the 
usual  quiet  routine  of  the  house  should  not  be  disturbed  around 
Mr.  C,  who  thinks,  I  am  sure,  that  he  has  been  victimised  enough 
in  having  to  answer  occasional  letters  of  inquiry  about  me.  And 
now  I  must  conclude  for  the  present.  I  am  so  sorry  for  poor 
Robert's  fingers.  Be  sure  to  send  me  the  copy  of  Grace's '  words  to 
her  mother.     Oh,  poor  souls!  what  woe,  and  what  mercy! 

Your  loving  niece, 

Jane  W.  Caklylb. 

>  The  poor  niece's. 


JAKE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  213 

LETTER  375. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  ThornhiU, 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  Oct.  26, 1863. 

Dearest  Mary, — Though  I  still  write  to  you  in  pencil  I  have  pro- 
gressed. I  walk  daily  from  my  bedroom  to  the  drawing-room,  af ler 
a  fashion;  my  sound  arm  round  Mary's  neck,  and  her  arm  round 
my  waist.  I  think  there  is  more  nervousness  than  pain  in  the  dif- 
ficulty with  which  I  make  this  little  journey.  For  the  rest,  I  don't 
lie  much  on  my  sofa,  but  sit  on  end.  I  cannot,  however,  sit  up  at 
table  to  write  with  pen  and  ink;  I  must  write  with  cushions  at  my 
back,  and  with  the  paper  on  my  knees;  in  which  circumstances  a 
pencil  is  less  fatiguing  than  pen  and  ink,  as  well  as  less  destructive 
to  my  clothes. 

The  unlucky  leg  will  in  a  week  or  two,  I  hope,  be  all  right.  I 
have  no  pain  whatever  in  it  now,  except  when  I  try  to  use  it;  and 
then  the  pain  is  not  great,  and  gets  daily  a  trifle  less.  But  my  arm 
is  still  a  bad  business;  especially  at  night  I  suffer  much  from  it. 
It  spoils  my  sleep,  and  that  again  reacts  upon  it  and  makes  it  worse. 
I  cannot  satisfy  myself  how  much  of  the  pain  I  am  now  suffering 
is  the  effect  of  the  fall — how  much  that  of  the  old  neuralgia;  and 
Mr.  Barnes  can  throw  no  light  on  that  for  me,  or  suggest  any 
remedy:  at  least  he  doesn't.  It  seems  to  me  he  regards  my  leg  as 
his  patient,  and  my  arm  as  Dr.  Quain's  patient,  w^hicli  he  has 
nothing  to  do  with ;  and  he  is  rather  glad  to  be  irresponsible  for  it, 
seeing  nothing  to  be  done!  He  did  once  say  in  a  careless  way  that 
plain  bark  and  soda,  '  one  of  the  most  nauseous  mixtures  he 
knew  of  in  this  world,'  was  better  than  'my  quinine;'  but  when 
I  asked,  would  it  have  as  good  an  effect  on  my  spirits  as  the 
quinine  had  had,  he  said,  'Oh,  I  can't  promise  you  that;  it  would 
probably  make  you  sick  and  low;  better  keep  to  your  lady-like 
quinine!' 

Ask  the  Doctor  if  he  sees  any  superiority  in  plain  bark  and  soda? 
I  don't  care  how  nauseous  a  medicine  is  if  it  do  me  good. 

Another  of  my  uncle  Robert's  daughters  has  died  of  consumption. 
Grace  (my  aunt)  has  written  me  a  long,  minute  account  of  her 
death-bed — one  of  the  saddest  things  I  ever  read  in  my  life.  It 
quite  crushed  down  the  heart  in  one  for  days.  The  poor  young 
woman's  sufferings,  and  the  deaf  mother's,  and,  oh,  such  a  heap 
of  misery  is  set  before  one  so  vividly;  and  then  the  consolation!    It 


214  LETTERS  AKD  MEMORIALS  OF 

is  a  comfort  to  know  that  the  dying  girl  was  supported  through  her 
terrible  trial  by  her  religious  faith  and  hope;  a  comfort,  and  the 
only  comfort  possible,  conceivable — if  it  had  stopped  there.  But 
you  know  my  feelings  about  religious  excitement — ecstatics;  I  can- 
not regard  that  as  a  genuine  element  of  religion.  Was  not  Christ 
Himself,  on  the  cross,  calm,  simple?  Did  He  not  even  pray  that, 
if  it  were  possible,  the  cup  might  pass  from  Him?  Was  there  ever 
in  the  whole  history  of  His  life  a  trace  of  excitement?  The  fuss 
and  excitement  that  seem  to  have  gone  on  about  this  poor  young 
death-bed,  then,  jars  on  my  mind;  the  working  up  of  the  sufEerer 
herself,  and  the  working  up  of  themselves  (the  onlookers)  into  a 
sort  of  hysterical  ecstasy  is  almost  as  painful  to  me  as  the  rest  of 
the  sad  business;  I  feel  it  to  be  a  getting-up  of  a  death-bed  scene  to 
be  put  into  a  tract!  And  in  the  heart  of  it  all  such  an  amount  of 
real  terrible  anguish ;  and  the  grand  solemn  faith  that  could  bear 
all,  and  triumph  over  all,  harrassed  by  earthly  interference  and 
excitations!  I  will  send  the  letter;  perhaps  you  will  find  all  this 
wrong  in  me;  we  could  never  agree  about  the  'revivals.'  Never 
mind;  we  love  one  another  all  the  same. 

My  kindest  regards  to  the  Doctor. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

Send  back  Grace's  letter. 

LETTER  276. 
,    To  Miss  Margaret  Welsh,  Liverpool. 

Chelsea:  November  2, 1863. 

Dearest  Maggie, — The  very  sight  of  your  letter  was  a  relief  to 
me,  for  I  knew  that  unless  dear  Jackie  had  been  a  little  better  you 
couldn't  have  written  as  much!  Next  time  do  write  a  mere  bulletin, 
or  1  can't  press  you  to  '  be  quick! '  From  the  account  you  give,  I 
draw  far  better  hope  about  him  than,  I  dare  say,  you  meant  to  give 
in  writing  it.  But  there  seems  to  be  so  much  vitality  in  the  poor 
little  fellow;  his  caring  to  be  read  to,  his  little  speech,  all  that 
sounds  as  if  there  were  a  good  basis  of  life  at  the  bottom  of  all  this 
illness.     God  grant  he  may  soon  be  pronounced  couvalescent! 

I  am  very  convalescent !  I  can  move  about  the  room  with  a  stick, 
and  the  pain  in  my  arm  has  been  considerably  less  for  the  last  few 
days,  when  I  make  no  attempt  to  move  it  more  than  it  likes.  I  at- 
tribute the  improvement  to  a  new  medicine,  recommended  to  me  by 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  215 

Carlyle's  friend,  Mr.  Foxton,  who  had  been  cured  by  it.     Before 

taking  it  I  aslced  the  advice  of  Dr.  B at  St.  Leonards  (a  man  of 

real  ability),  and  he  sent  me  a  proper  prescription,  and  directions 
about  using  it.  It  is  called  Iodide  of  Potash,  and  is  taken  with 
quantities  of  fluid ;  and  along  with  it  have  to  be  taken  pills  of  Valeri- 
ate  or  Quinine.  If  it  cures  me,  and  you  ever  need  curing,  you  shall 
have  the  prescription. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  arm-business,  some  four  months  ago  now, 
I  fancied  I  had  given  my  arm  an  unconscious  sprain,  as  the  pain 
in  attempting  to  move  it  preceded  any  aching  or  shooting,  inde- 
pendent of  attempting  to  move  it.  The  Doctor  persuaded  me  '  it 
was  all  neuralgia.'  Since  my  accident  that  sprained  feeliug  has 
been  dreadful,  till  within  the  last  few  days.  And  though  Mr. 
Barnes  always  declared  '  it  was  all  rheumatism,'  it  has  been  impos- 
sible to  persuade  me  that  the  same  blow  received  on  my  shoulder 
and  hip-joint  at  the  same  time,  and  damaging  the  sinews  in  my 
thigh,  would  not  damage  the  sinews  in  my  arm  also.  '  That  stands 
to  reason '  (as  old  Helen  used  to  say). 

Of  course,  if  rheumatism  is  about  in  one,  it  will  gather  to  any 
strained  part;  and  so  there  has  been  plenty  of  rheumatic  pain,  besides 
the  pain  from  the  hurt.  But  I  am  certain  it  is  more  than  rheumatism 
that  hinders  me  from  lifting  my  arm.  And  having  a  faculty  of 
remembering  things  long  after  date,  I  remembered  the  other  day 
that  I  took  to  using  the  dumb-bells  for  two  or  three  days,  to  make 
myself  stronger  par  mm  force,  when  I  was  feeling  so  weak  and  ill 
early  in  summer  (it  must  have  been  just  before  I  noticed  the  stiff- 
ness of  my  arm),  and  that  I  left  them  off  because  my  arms  felt  too 
weak  to  use  them,  and  ached  after.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  my 
weak  mind  to  be  assured  that  I,  then  and  there,  sprained  some 
sinew  in  my  arm,  and  all  the  rest  would  have  followed  in  the  course 
of  nature;  and  I  might  give  up  vague  terrors  about  angina  pectoris, 
paralysis,  disease  of  the  spine,  &c.  &c.    Best  stop. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  W.  0. 

LETTER  277. 
Mrs.  Simmonds,  Oakley  Street,  CJieslea. 

5  Cheyno  Row:  Nov.  .^,  1863. 
My  darling, — I  am  so  thankful  that  you  are  all  riglit.     And  to 
think  of  your  writing  on  the  third  day  after  your  confinement  the 


316  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

most  legible — indeed,  the  only  legible — note  I  ever  had  from  you  in 
my  life. 

Now  about  this  compliment  offered  me,  which  you  are  pleased  to 
call  a  '  favor  '  (to  you),  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  wish  I  could 
go  and  talk  it  over ;  but,  even  if  I  could  go  in  a  cab  one  of  these 
next  dry  days,  I  couldn't  drive  up  your  stairs  in  a  cab!  I  should  be 
greatly  pleased  that  your  baby  bore  a  name  of  mine.  But  the  God- 
motherhood?  There  seems  to  me  one  objection  to  that,  which  is  a 
fatal  one— I  don't  belong  to  the  English  Church;  and  the  Scotch 
Church,  which  I  do  belong  to,  recognises  no  Godfathers  and  God- 
mothers. The  father  takes  all  the  obligations  on  himself  (serves  him 
right!).  I  was  present  at  a  Church  of  England  christening  for  the 
first  time,  when  the  Blunts  took  me  to  see  their  baby  christened,  and 
it  looked  to  me  a  very  solemn  piece  of  work ;  and  that  Mr.  Maurice 
and  Julia  Blunt  (the  Godfather  and  Godmother)  had  to  take  upon 
themselves,  before  God  and  man,  very  solemn  engagements,  which 
it  was  to  be  hoped,  they  meant  to  fulfil!  I  should  not  have  liked  to 
bow  and  murmur,  and  undertake  all  they  did,  without  meaning  to 
fulfil  it  according  to  my  best  ability.  Now,  my  darling,  how  could 
I  dream  of  binding  myself  to  look  after  the  spiritual  welfare  of  any 
earthly  baby?  I,  who  have  no  confidence  in  my  own  spiritual  wel- 
fare! I  am  not  wanted  to,  it  may  perhaps  be  answered — you  mean 
to  look  after  that  yourself  without  interference.  What  are  these 
spoken  engagements  then?  A  mere  form;  that  is,  apiece  of  hum- 
bug. How  could  I,  in  cold  blood,  go  through  with  a  ceremony  in 
a  church,  to  which  neither  the  others  nor  myself  attach  a  grain  of  ver- 
acity? If  you  can  say  anything  to  the  purpose,  I  am  very  willing 
to  be  proved  mistaken;  and  in  that  case  very  willing  to  stand  God- 
mother to  a  baby  that  on  the  third  day  is  not  at  all  red! 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  278. 

Mrs.  Simmonds,  82  Oakley  Street,  Chelsea. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Friday,  Nov.  27,  1863. 
Dear  Pet, — I  am  not  the  least  well,  and  should  just  about  as  soon 
walk  overhead  into  the  Thames  as  into  a  roomful  of  people!  At 
the  same  time,  I  wish  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  baby  on  this  her 
next  grand  performance  after  getting  herself  born,  and  to  place  in 
her  small  hands  a  talisman  worthy  of  the  occasion, and  suitable  to  a 
baby  born  on  '  All  Saints'  Day '  (whatever  sort  of  day  that  may  be). 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  217 

As  I  shouldn't  at  all  recommend  running  a  long  pin  into  the  crea- 
ture, I  advise  you  to  wear  the  brooch  in  its  present  form  till  the 
baby  is  sufficiently  hardened,  from  its  present  pulpy  condition,  to 
bear  something  tied  round  its  throat,  without  fear  of  strangulation ! 
And  then  you  may  remove  the  piu,  and  attach  the  talisman  to  a 
string  in  form  of  a  locket.  But  what  is  it?  '  What  does  it  do '  (as 
a  servant  of  mine  once  asked  me  in  respect  of  '  a  lord ').  What  it  is, 
my  dear,  is  an  emblematic  mosaic,  made  from  bits  of  some  tomb 
of  the  early  Christians,  and  representing  an  early  Christian  device: 
the  Greek  cross,  the  palm  leaves,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Worn  by 
the  like  of  me,  I  daresay  it  would  have  no  virtue  to  speak  of;  but 
worn  by  a  baby  born  on  All  Saints'  Day!  it  must  be  a  potent  charm 
against  the  devil  and  all  his  works  one  would  think,  for  it  is  a  per- 
fectly authentic  memorial  of  the  early  Christians. 

I  hope  you  didn't  go  and  drop  the  'Jane  '  after  all!    Bless  you 
and  it. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Baillie  Welsh  Cablylb. 


LETTERS  279-282. 

Four  Shokt  Letters. 

About  the  beginning  of  January  (1864)  there  were  thought  to  be 
perceptible  some  faint  symptoms  of  improvement  or  abatement; 
which  she  herself  never  durst  believe  in;  and  indeed  to  us  eager 
on-lookers  they  were  faint  and  uncertain— nothing  of  real  hope, 
except  in  getting  to  St.  Leonards  so  soon  as  the  season  would 
permit. 

Early  in  jMarch,  weather  mild  though  dim  and  wettish,  this  sad 
transit  was  accomplished  by  railway;  I  escorting,  and  visiting  at 
every  stage;  Maggie  Welsh  and  our  poor  patient  in  what  they  called 
a  '  s"ick  carriage,'  which  indeed  took  her  up  at  this  door,  and  after 

delays  and  haggles  at   St.  Leonards,  put  her  down  at  Dr.  B 's; 

but  was  found  otlierwise  inferior  to  the  common  arrangement  for  a 
sick  person  (two  window-seats,  -with  board  and  cushion  put  between), 
though  about  five  or  six  times  dearer,  and  was  never  employed 
again.  She  was  carried  downstairs  here  in  the  bed  of  this  dreary 
vehicle  (which  I  saw  well  would  remind  her,  as  it  did,  of  a  hearse, 
with  its  window  for  letting  in  the  coffin);  she  herself,  weak  but 
clear,  directed  the  men.  So  pathetic  a  face  as  then  glided  past  me 
at  this  lower  door  I  never  saw  nor  shall  see!  And  tlie  journey— and 
the  arrival.  But  of  all  tliis,  wliich  passed  witliout  accident,  and 
whicli  remains  to  myself  unforgetable  enough,  and  sad  as  the  realms 
of  Hades,  I  undertook  to  say  nothing. 

Her  reception  was  of  the  very  kindest;  her  adjustment,  with 
Maggie  and  one  of  our  maids  (in  fine,  airy,  quiet  rooms,  in  the  big 

IL— 10 


gl8  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

house,  with  the  loving  and  skilful  hosts),  I  saw  in  a  few  hours  com. 
pleted  to  my  satisfaction,  far  beyond  expectation.  She  herself  said 
little;  but  sat  in  her  pure,  simple  dress,  &c.,  looking,  though  sor- 
rowful, calm  and  thankful.  At  length  I  left  the  house  (or  indeed 
they  almost  pushed  me  out,  'not  to  miss  the  last  train,'  which  I 
saved  only  by  half  a  moment  by  hot  speed  and  good  luck),  and  got 
home  in  a  more  hopeful  mood  than  I  had  come  away.  Solely,  in 
my  last  cab  (from  Waterloo  Station),  I  had  stuck  my  cap  (a  fine 
black  velvet  thing  of  her  making)  too  hurriedly  into  my  pocket,  and 
it  had  hustled  out,  and  in  the  darkness  been  left.  Loss  irrecovera- 
ble, not  noticed  till  next  morning,  and  which  I  still  regret.  '  Oh, 
nothing! '  said  she,  cheerily  and  yet  mournfully,  at  our  next  meet- 
ing. 'I  will  make  you  a  new  cap  when  I  am  able  to  sew  again.' 
But  I  think,  in  effect,  she  never  sewed  more. 

Maggie's  dally  bulletin  was  indistinct  and  an^biguous,  but  strove 
always  to  be  favourable,  or  really  was  so.  I  sat  busy  here;  gener- 
ally wrote  to  my  poor  darling  some  daily  line ;  got  from  her  now  and 
then  some  word  or  two,  but  always  on  mere  practical  or  household 
matters;  seldom  or  never  any  confirmation  of  Maggie's  reading  of 
the  omens.  In  the  last  week  of  March  (as  covenanted)  I  made  my 
first  visit  (Friday  till  Monday,  I  think).     Forster  and  Mrs.  F.  went 

with  me,  but  did  not  see  her.     I  stayed  at  Dr.  B 's,  they  at  a 

hotel,  where  was  dining,  &c.  Whether  this  was  my  first  visit  to  her 
there  I  strive  to  recollect  distinctly,  but  cannot.  I  seem  to  have 
even  seen  but  little  of  her,  and  certainl}^  learned  nothing  intimate; 
as  if  she  rather  avoided  much  ccnnmunication  with  me,  unwilling  to 
rob  me  of  the  doctor's  confident  prognostications,  and  much  unable 
to  confirm  them.  Her  mood  of  fixed,  quiet  sorrow,  with  no  hope  in 
it  but  of  enduring  well,  was  painfully  visible.  I  had  just  got  rid  of 
my  vol.  v.,  deeply  disappointed  latterly  on  finding  that  there  must 
be  a  sixth.  Hades  was  not  more  lugubrious  than  that  book  too  now 
was  to  me;  andj^et  there  was  something  in  it  of  sacred,  of  Orpheus- 
like (though  I  did  not  think  of  '  Orpheus '  at  all,  nor  name  my  dar- 
ling an  '  Eurydice  ' !)  and  the  stern  course  was  to  continue — what 
else? 

In  the  end  of  April  brother  John  came  to  me.     Before  this  it  had 

been  decided  (since  the  B 's,  who  at  first  pretended  that  they 

would,  now  evidently  would  not,  accept  remuneration  from  us)  that 
a  small  furnished  house  should  be  rented,  and  a  shift  made  thither; 
which  was  done  and  over  about  the  time  John  came.  I  was  to  re- 
move thither  with  my  work  (so  soon  as  liftable).  He  by  himself 
made  a  preliminary  visit  thither;  then  perhaps  another  with  me; 
and  at  his  return  I  could  notice  (though  he  said  nothing)  that  he 
meant  to  try  staying  with  us  there;  which  he  did,  and  surely  was  of 
use  to  me  there. 

Early  in  May  this  (Chelsea)  house  was  left  to  Larkin's  care  (who 
at  last  came  into  it,  letting  his  own);  and  all  of  us  had  reassembled 
in  the  poor  new  hospice  ('  117  Marina,  St.  Leonards  '),  studious  to 
try  our  best  and  utmost  there.  Maggie  Welsh  had  to  return  to 
Liverpool  (to  nurse  a  poor  little  child-nephew  who  was  dying).  I 
did  not  find  Maggie  at  St.  Leonards;  but  the  good  Mary  Craik 
(Professor's  Mary,  from  Belfast),  by  my  Jeannie's  own  suggestion, 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  219 

was  written  to,    came   directlJ^   and  did  as  well;  perhaps  more 
quietly,  and  thus  better. 

In  those  seven  or  eight  months  of  martj'rdora  (October  1863 — 
May  1864)  there  is  naturally  no  record  of  tiie  poor  dear  martyr's 
own  discoverable;  nothing  but  these  small,  most  mournful  notes 
written  with  the  left  hand,  as  if  from  the  core  of  a  broken  heart, 
and  worthy  to  survive  as  a  voice  de  profundi^.  Maggie's  part, 
which  tills  the  last  two  pages,  I  omit.  The  address  is  gone,  but 
still  evident  on  inference. 


T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

St.  Leonards:  Friday,  April  8, 1864. 
Oh,  my  own  darling!  God  have  pity  on  us!  Ever  since  the  day 
after  you  left,  whatever  flattering  accounts  may  have  been  sent 
you,  the  truth  is  I  have  been  wretched — perfectly  wretched  day 
and  night  with  that  horrible  malady.  Dr.  B.  knows  nothing  about 
it  more  than  the  other  doctors.  So,  God  help  me,  for  on  earth  is 
no  help! 

Lady  A.  writes  that  Lord  A.  left  you  two  thousand  pounds — not 
in  his  will,  to  save  duty — but  to  be  given  you  as  soon  as  possible. 
' The  wished  for  come  too  late!'  Money  can  do  nothing  for  us 
now. 

Your  loving  and  sore  suffering 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

To-day  I  am  a  little  less  tortured — only  a  little;  but  a  letter  hav- 
ing been  promised,  I  write. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

St.  Leonards:  April  19, 1864. 
It  is  no  '  morbid  despondency; '  it  is  a  positive  physical  torment 
day  and  night— a  burnir.^,  throbbing,  maddening  sensation  in  the 
most  nervous  part  of  me  ever  and  ever.  How  be  in  good  spirits  or 
have  any  hope  but  to  die!  When  I  spoke  of  going  home,  it  was  to 
die  there;  here  were  the  place  for  livinr/,  if  one  could!     It  was  not 

my  wish  to  leave  here.     It  was  the  B s'  own  suggestion  and 

wish  tiiat  we  should  get  a  little  house  of  our  own. 

Oh,  have  pity  on  me!  I  am  worse  than  ever  I  was  in  that  terri- 
ble malady.  I  am, 

Yours  as  ever, 

Jane  Carltle. 


320  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


T.  Caoiyle,  Esq.,  Chelsea. 

St.  Leonards-on-Sea:  April  25, 1864. 
Oh,  my  husband!  I  am  suffering  torments!  each  day  I  suffer 
more  horribly.  Oh,  I  would  like  you  beside  me!  I  am  terribly 
alone.  But  I  don't  want  to  interrupt  your  work.  I  will  wait  till 
we  are  in  our  own  hired  house ;  and  then  if  am  no  better,  you  must 
come  for  a  day. 

Your  own  wretched 

J.  W.  C. 
To  the  Misses  Welsh,  Edinburgh. 

St.  Leonards-on-Sea:i  end  of  April,  1864. 

My  own  dear  Aunts, — I  take  you  to  my  heart  and  kiss  you  fondly 
one  after  another.  God  knows  if  we  shall  ever  meet  again ;  and 
His  will  be  done!  My  doctor  has  hopes  of  my  recovery,  but  I  my- 
self am  not  hopeful ;  my  sufferings  are  terrible. 

The  malady  is  in  my  womb — you  may  fancy.  It  is  the  conse- 
quence of  that  unlucky  fall;  no  disease  there,  the  doctors  say,  but 
some  nervous  derangement.  Oh,  what  I  have  suffered,  my  aunts! 
what  I  may  still  have  to  suffer!  Pray  for  me  that  I  may  be  ena- 
bled to  endure. 

Don't  write  to  myself;  reading  letters  excites  me  too  much. 
And  Maggie  tells  me  all  I  should  hear.  I  commit  you  to  the  Lord's 
keeping,  whether  I  live  or  die.  Ah,  my  aunts,  I  shall  die;  that  is 
my  belief  1 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  283. 

With  a  violent  effort  of  packing  and  scheming  (e.g. ,  a  box  of 
books  with  cross-bars  in  it,  and  shelves  which  were  to  be  put  in, 
and  make  the  box  a  press,  &c.  &c.),  in  all  which  Larkin  and  Mag- 
gie Welsh  assisted  diligently,  I  got  down  to  Marina  on  one  of  tlie 
first  days  of  May.  Dreary  and  tragic  was  our  actual  situation 
there,  but  we  strove  to  be  of  hope,  and  were  all  fixedly  intent  to  do 
our  best.  The  house  was  new,  clean,  light  enough,  and  well  aired; 
otherwise  paltry  in  the  extreme — small,  misbuilt  every  inch  of  it;  a 
despicable,  cockney,  scamped  edifice;  a  rickety  bandbox  rather 
than  a  house.  But  that  did  not  nmch  concern  us,  tenants  only  for 
a  month  or  two — nay,  withal  there  were  traces  tliat  the  usual  in- 
habitants (two  old  ladies,  probably  very  poor)  had  been  cleanly, 

'  Probably  still  in  Dr.  B 's  house  there.     The  next  letter  is  expressly 

dated  from  the  new  hired  house.    Maggie  still  there,  but  just  about  to  leave. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  221 

neat  persons,  sensible,  as  we,  of  the  sins  and  miseries  of  their 
scamped,  despicable  dwelling-place,  poor,  good  souls! 

In  a  small  back  closet,  window  opposite  to  door,  and  both  al- 
ways open,  I  bad  soou  got  a  table  wedged  to  fixity,  had  set  on  end 
my  book-box,  changing  it  to  a  book-piess,  and  adjusted  myself  to 
work,  quite  tolerably  all  along,  though  feeling  as  if  tied  up  in  a 
rack.  One  good  bedroom  there  was  in  the  top  story,  looking  out 
over  the  sea — this  was  naturally  hers;  mine  below  and  to  rearward 
was  the  next  best,  and,  by  cuuniug  adjustments  curtains  impro- 
vised out  of  rugs  and  ropes  were  made  to  exclude  the  light  in  some 
degree  and  admit  freely  the  air  currents.  We  made  with  our  knives 
about  a  dozen  little  wedges  as  the  first  thing  to  keep  the  doors  open 
or  ajar  at  our  will,  their  own  being  various  in  that  respect!  To  put 
up  with  the  house  was  a  right  easy  matter,  almost  a  solacement,  in 
sight  of  the  deep  misery  of  its  poor  mistress,  spite  of  all  her  striv- 
ing. 

The  first  day  she  was  dressed  waiting  my  arrival,  and  came  pain- 
fully resolute  down  to  dinner  with  us,  but  could  hardly  sit  it  out; 
and  never  could  attempt  again.  With  intellect  clear  and  even  in- 
ventive, her  whole  being  was  evidently  plunged  in  continual  woe, 
pain  as  if  unbearable,  and  no  hope  left;  in  spite  of  our  encourage- 
ments no  steady  hope  at  all.  On  the  earth  I  have  never  seen  so 
touching  a  sight!  She  drove  out  at  lowest  three  or  four  times  a 
day — ultimately  long  drives  (which  John  took  charge  of  to  Battle, 
to  Bexhill  regions  seeking  new  lodgings — alas,  in  vain!).  Her  last 
daily  drive  from  four  to  half-past  live  was  alwaj^s  with  me,  my 
day's  work  now  done.  She  was  evidently  thankful,  but  spoke 
hardly  at  all;  or,  if  she  did  for  my  sake,  on  some  iudiilerent  mat- 
ter, naming  to  me  some  street  oddity,  locality,  or* the  like;  those 
poor  efforts  now  in  my  memory  are  the  saddest  of  all,  beautiful  to 
me,  and  sad  and  pathetic  to  me  beyond  all  the  rest.  On  setting  her 
down  at  home  I  directly  stepped  across  to  the  livery  stable,  and 
mounted  for  a  rapid  obligato  ride  of  three  hours ;  rides  unlike  any 
I  have  ever  had  in  the  world;  more  gloomy  and  mournful  even 
than  the  Loudon  ones,  though  by  no  means  so  abominable  even, 
one's  company  here  being  mainly  God's  sky  and  earth,  not  cockuey- 
dom  with  its  slums,  enchanted  aperies  and  infernalries.  I  rode  far 
and  wide,  saw  strange  old  villages  (a  pair  of  storks  in  one)  saw 
Battle  by  many  i-oules  (and  even  began  to  understand  the  Harold- 
Willian\  duel  there.  Strange  that  no  English  soldier,  scholar,  or 
mortal  ever  yet  tried  to  do  it).  Battle,  town  and  monastery,  in  the 
calm  or  in  the  windy  summer  gloaming,  was  a  favourite  sight  of 
mine;  only  the  roads  were  in  parts  distressing  (new  cuts,  new  cock- 
ney scamped  edifices,  and  railways  and  much  dust).  Crowhirst 
and  its  yew,  that  has  seen  (probably)  the  days  of  Julius  Cscsar  as 
well  as  William  the  Conqueror's,  and  ours.  But  that  is  not  my 
topic.  In  the  green  old  lanes  witii  their  quaint  old  cottages,  good 
old  cottagers,  valiant,  frugal,  patient,  I  could  have  wept.  In  the 
disastrous,  dust-covered,  cockneyfying  parts  my  own  feeling  had 
something  of  rage  in  it,  rage  and  disgust.  It  was  usually  after 
nightfall  when  I  got  home.  Tea  was  waiting  for  me;  and  silently 
my  Jcannie  (as  I  at  length  observed)  to  preside  over  it  (ah,  me!  ah, 


222  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

me!),  directly  after  which  she  went  up  to  bed.  Hastings,  St. 
Leonards,  Battle,  Rye,  Winchelsea,  Beachy  Head,  intrinsically  all 
a  beautiful  region  (when  not  cockneyfied,  and  turned  to  cheap  and 
nasty  cliaos  and  the  mortar  tubs),  and  yet  in  the  world  is  no  pUice 
I  should  so  much  shudder  to  see  again. 

We  have  various  visitors — Forster,  Twisleton,  Woolner — and 
none  of  these  could  she  see;  not  even  Miss  Bromley,  who  came  twice 
for  a  day  or  more,  but  in  vain — except  the  last  time,  just  one  hur- 
ried glimpse.  Nothing  could  so  indicate  to  what  a  depth  of  despair 
the  ever  gnawing  pain  and  boundless  misery  had  sunk  this  once 

brightest  and   openest   of  human   souls.     The  B s   continued 

with  unwearied  kindness  doing,  and  hoping,  and  endeavouring; 
but  that  also,  even  on  the  Doctor's  part  much  more  on  her  own, 
began  to  seem  futile,  unsuccessful;  good  old  Barnes  came  once 
(fast  falling  into  imbecility  and  finis,  poor  man),  said:  'Hah! 
intrinsically  just  the  same;  however,  the  disease  will  burn  itself 
out!' 

About  the  middle  of  June  (lease  was  to  end  with  that  month,  and 
her  own  house,  especially  her  own  room  there,  had  grown  horrible 
to  her  thoughts)  she  moved  that  we  should  engage  the  house  till  end 
of  July;  which  was  done.  But,  alas!  before  June  ended  things  had 
grown  still  more  intolerable;  sleep  more  and  more  impossible,  and 
she  wished  to  be  off  from  the  July  bargain — would  the  people  have 
consented?  (which  they  would  not) — so  that  the  question  what  to 
do  became  darker  and  darker.  '  If  your  room  at  Chelsea  had  a  new 
paper?  '  somebody  suggested;  and  Miss  Bromley  had  undertaken  to 
get  it  done.  This  of  the  '  new  paper '  went  into  my  heart  as  nothing 
else  had  done,  '  so  small,  so  helpless,  faint;'  and  to  the  present  hour 
it  could  almost  Inake  me  weep!  It  was  done,  however,  by-andb}'; 
and  under  changed  omens.     Thank  God. 

But  in  the  meanwhile,  hour  by  hour,  things  were  growing  more 
intolerable.  Twelve  successive  nights  of  burning  summer,  totailj' 
without  sleep;  morning  after  the  eleventh  of  them  she  announced 
a  fixed  resolution  of  her  own,  and  the  next  morning  executed  it. 
Set  off  by  express  train,  with  John  for  escort,  to  London ;  would 
try  Mrs.  Forster's  instead  of  her  own  horrible  room ;  but  would  go 
(we  could  all  see)  or  else  die.  Miss  Bromley,  who  had  again  come, 
she  consented  to  see  in  passing  into  the  train;  one  moment  onlj',  a 
squeeze  of  the  hand,  and  adieu.  With  a  stately,  almost  proud  step, 
my  poor  martyred  darling  took  her  place,  John  opposite  her,  and 
shot  away. 

At  the  Forsters'  she  had  some  disturbed  sleep,  not  much;  and 
next  morning  ordered  John  to  make  ready  for  the  evening  train  to 
Dumfries  (to  sister  Mary's,  at  the  Gill),  and  rushed  along  all  night, 
330  miles  at  once — a  truly  heroic  remedy  of  nature's  own  prescrib- 
ing, which  did  by  quick  steps  and  struggles  bring  relief. 

The  Gill,  sister  Mary's  poor  but  ever  kind  and  generous  human 
habitation,  is  a  small  farmhouse,  seven  miles  beyond  Annan,  twenty- 
seven  beyond  Carlisle,  eight  or  ten  miles  short  of  Dumfries,  and, 
therefore,  twenty-two  or  twenty-four  short  of  Tliornhill,  through 
botli  of  which  the  S.  W.  Railway  passes.  Scotsbrig  lies  some  ten 
miles  northward  of  the  Gill  (road  at  right  angles  to  the  Cai-lisle  and 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  223 

Dumfries  Railway):  passes  by  Hoddam  Hill,  even  as  of  old— and 
at  Ecclefechan,  two  miles  from  Scotsbrig,  crosses  the  Carlisle, 
Moffat  or  Calendouian  Railway— enough  for  the  topography  of 
these  tragic  things. — T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  117  Marina,  St.  Leonards-on-Sea. 

The  Gill:  July  15,  1864. 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  quite  as  amazed  as  you  to  find  myself  here,  so 
promiscuous!  I  had  given  up  all  idea  of  Scotland  when  I  left  St. 
Leonards ;  felt  neither  strength  nor  courage  for  it ;  but  postponed 
projects  till  I  saw  what  lay  for  me  at  Palace-Gate  House.  I  found 
there  much  kindness,  and  much  state,  and  a  firm  expectation  that  I 
was  merely  passing  through!  And  if  they  had  wanted  me  ever  so 
much  to  stay,  there  Avas  not  a  bed  in  the  house  fit  to  be  slept  in 
from  the  noise  point  of  view!  Cheyne  Row  full  of  Larkins;  and 
my  old  room  in  the  same  state:  horrible  was  the  idea  to  me!  The 
Blunts  perhaps  out  of  town;  London  very  hot!  I  did  sleep  some 
human  sleep  in  my  luxurious  bedroom,  all  crashing  with  wheels; 
but  only  the  having  had  no  sleep  the  night  before  made  me  so  clever! 
I  could  not  have  slept  a  second  night.  No,  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  what  I  did — turn  that  second  night  to  use,  travel  through 
it,  and  not  try  for  any  sleep  until  there  was  some  chance  of  getting 
it;  that  night  on  the  road  was  nothing  like  so  wretched  as  those 
nights  at  Marina.  I  drank  four  glasses  of  champagne  in  the  night! 
and  took  a  good  breakfast  at  Carlisle.  John  was  dreadfully  ill- 
tempered  :  we  quarrelled  incessantly,  but  he  had  the  grace  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself  after,  and  apologise.  On  the  whole,  it  was  a 
birthday  of  good  omen.  My  horrible  ailment  kept  off  as  by  en- 
cliantment. 

Mary  is  all  that  one  could  wish  as  hostess,  nurse,  and  sister.  She 
has  had  something  of  the  sort  herself,  and  her  sympathy  is  intelli- 
gent. 

I  am  gone  in  for  milk  diet:  took  porridge  and  buttermilk  in 
quantity  last  night,  and  slept,  with  few  awakenings,  all  night;  had 
a  tumbler  of  new  milk  at  eight,  and  got  up  to  breakfast  at  nine.  I 
am  very  shaky,  you  will  see,  but,  oh,  so  thankful  for  my  sleep  and 
ease — would  it  but  last!  John  went  to  Dumfries  yesterday  after- 
noon ;  and  all  who  had  been  about  me  being  gone,  I  felt  like  a  child 
set  down  out  of  arms,  but  am  contriving  to  totter  pretty  well  so  far. 
John  was  to  be  here  to-day  some  time. 

I  am  very  sorry  for  you  with  those  idiot  servants.     Mary '  proved 

1  £>Brvanl  now  (privately)  in  a  bad  way,  as  turned  out! 


224  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

herself  of  no  earthly  use  to  me,  besides  being  sulky  and  conceited. 
Maiy  Craik  is  your  only  present  stay;  kiss  her  for  me,  dear,  kind, 
good  girl.  I  will  write  to  her  next.  I  am  so  sorry  at  having  had 
to  leave  her  in  such  a  mess. 

James  Austin  had  already  got  a  nice  carriage  for  Mary  to  drive 
me  about  in.     Oh,  they  are  so  kind,  and  so  polite! 

Your  own 

J.  W.  C. 

Extracts  from  Letters. 

Mrs.  Carlyle's  letters,  during  the  remainder  of  the  summer,  are 
a  sad  record  of  perpetually  recurring  suffering.  The  carriage  broke 
down  in  her  second  drive  with  her  sister-in-law,  and  she  was  vio- 
lently shaken.  Mrs.  Austin  gave  her  all  the  care  that  love  had  to 
bestow;  but  in  a  farmhouse  there  was  not  the  accommodation 
which  her  condition  required,  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Russell  carried 
her  off  to  Holm  Hill,  where  she  would  be  under  Dr.  Russell's  im- 
mediate charge.  A  series  of  short  extracts  from  the  letters  to  her 
husband  will  convey  a  sufficient  picture  of  her  condition  in  body 
and  mind.  The  most  touching  feature  in  them  is  the  affection 
with  which  she  now  clung  to  him.  Carlyle's  anxiety,  at  last  awake, 
had  convinced  her  that  his  strange  humours  had  not  risen  from 
real  indifference.  John  Carlyle,  the  doctor,  with  whom  she  had 
travelled,  had  been  rough  and  unfeeling. — J.  A.  F. 


To  T.  Carlyle. 

Holm  Hill,  July  23,  1864. — I  have  arrived  safe.  They  met  me  at 
the  station,  and  are  kind  as  so  many  are.  John  offered  to  accom- 
pany here,  but  I  declined.  Fancy  him  telling  me  in  my  agony 
yesterday  that  if  I  had  ever  done  anything  in  my  life  this  would 
not  have  been;  that  no  poor  woman  with  work  to  mind  had  ever 
such  an  ailment  as  this  of  mine  since  the  world  began! '  Oh,  my 
dear,  I  think  how  near  my  mother  I  am !  How  still  I  should  be 
laid  beside  her. '  But  I  wish  to  live  for  you,  if  only  I  could  live 
out  of  torment. 

July  25. — Mary  Craik  will  go  to-day,  and  you  will  be  alone  with 
town  maids;  and  if  I  were  there  I  could  but  add  to  your  troubles. 
We  are  sorely  tried,  and  God  alone  knows  what  the  end  will  be. 
It  is  no  wonder  if  my  stock  of  hope  and  courage  is  quite  worn  out. 

'  Poor  John  1  well-intending,  but  with  hand  unconsciously  rough,  even  cruel, 
as  in  this  last  instance,  which  she  never  could  forget  again, 
a  Oh,  Heaven  1 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  225 

July  27. — I  could  not  write  yesterday ;  I  was  too  ill  and  desper- 
ate. Again,  witliout  assignable  cause,  I  had  got  no  wink  of  sleep. 
1  am  terribly  weak.  If  I  had  not  such  kind  people  beside  me  I 
should  be  wretched  indeed.  I  do  not  feel  so  agitated  by  the  sights 
about  here  as  I  used  to  do.  I  seem  already  to  belong  to  the 
passed-away  as  much  as  to  the  present ;  nay,  more. 

God  bless  you  on  your  solitary  way. 

July  28. — When  will  I  be  back?  Ah,  my  God!  when?  for  it  is 
no  good  going  back  to  be  a  trouble  to  you  and  a  torment  to  mj'self. 
I  must  not  look  forward,  but  try  to  bear  my  life  from  day  to  day, 
thankful  that  for  the  present  I  am  so  well  cared  for. 

August  2. — I  am  cared  for  here  as  I  have  never  been  since  I  lost 
my  mother's  nursing;  and  everything  is  good  for  me:  the  quiet 
airy  bedroom,  the  new  milk,  the  beautiful  drives;  and  when  all 
this  fails  to  bring  me  human  sleep  or  endurable  nervousness,  can 
you  wonder  that  I  am  in  the  lowest  spirits  about  myself?  So  long 
as  I  had  a  noisy  bedroom  or  food  miscooked  even,  I  had  something 
to  attribute  my  sleeplessness  to;  now  I  can  only  lay  it  to  my  dis- 
eased nerves,  and  at  xn.y  age  such  illness  docs  not  right  itself. 

August  5. — Except  for  this  wakefulness  I  am  better  than  when  I 
left  Marina,  and  it  is  unaccountable  that  I  should  be  so  well  in 
spite  of  getting  less  sleep  than  I  ever  heard  of  anj'one,  out  of  a 
medical  book,  getting  and  living  with.  I  was  weighed  j'esterday, 
and  found  a  gain  of  five  pounds  since  April.  If  sleep  would  come 
I  think  I  should  recover — the  first  time  I  have  had  this  hope  seri- 
ously; but  if  it  won't  come  I  must  break  down  sooner  or  later, 
being  no  Dutchman  nor  Jeffrey;'  and  I  fear  not  for  my  life,  but 
for  my  reason.  It  is  almost  sinfully  ungrateful,  when  God  has 
borne  me  through  such  prolonged  agonies  with  my  senses  intact, 
to  have  so  little  confidence  in  the  future;  but  courage  and  hope 
have  been  ground  out  of  me.  Submission!  Acknowledgment 
that  my  sufferings  have  been  no  greater  than  I  deserved  is  just  the 
most  that  I  am  up  to. 

Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  very  weary!  My  agony  has  lasted  long!  I 
am  tempted  to  take  a  long  cry  over  myself — and  no  good  will  come 
of  that. 

August  22. — I  have  no  wholly  sleepless  nights  to  report  now.  I 
don't  sleep  well,  by  any  means;  but  to  sleep  at  all  is  such  an  im- 

>  In  Cabanis,  case  of  a  Dutch  gentleman  who  lived  twenty  years  without 
sleep  1  which  I  often  remembered  for  my  own  sake  and  hers.    Jeffrey  is  Lord 
Jeffrey ;  sad  trait  of  Insomnia  reported  by  himself. 
II.— 10* 


226  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

provement.     I  continue  to  gain  flesh.     A declares  that  in  the 

last  ten  days  1  have  gained  four  pounds!    But  that  must  be  non- 
sense. 

August  26. — Walking  is  hardly  possible  for  me  at  present,  the 
change  of  the  weather  having  produced  rheumatic  pains  and  stiff- 
ness in  my  knees.  I  did  the  best  I  could  for  myself  in  buying  a 
good  supply  of  ■\voollen  uuder-garments — not  new  dresses,  not  a 
single  new  dress,  nor  anything  for  the  outside.  The  mercury  of 
my  mental  thermometer  has  not  risen  to  care  for  appearances,  only 
to  the  hope  of  living  long  enough  to  need  new  flannels.  I  did  once 
turn  over  the  idea  of  a  new  bonnet,  the  one  I  have  having  lasted 
me  three  years !  But  I  sent  it  to  the  daughter  of  your  old  admirer, 
Shankland  the  tailor,  and  she  took  out  the  'clures '  and  put  in  a 
clean  cap  for  tenpence! 

August  29. — The  thought  of  how  I  am  ever  to  make  that  long 
journey  back  which  I  made  here  in  the  strength  of  desperation, 
troubles  me  night  and  day;  and  what  is  to  become  of  me  when  I 
am  back,  with  my  warm  milk  and  my  nursing  and  my  doctoring 
taken  away?  Oh,  I  am  frightened — frightened!  a  perfect  coward 
am  I  become — I,  who  was  surely  once  brave !  But  I  cannot,  must 
not,  stay  on  here  through  the  winter.  Besides  the  unreasonable- 
ness of  inflicting  such  a  burden  on  others,  it  would  be  too  cold  and 
damp  for  me  here  in  the  valley  of  the  Nith.  So,  dear,  though  I 
would  fain  spare  you  this  and  all  troubles  with  me.  I  must  go  to 
the  subject  of  the  papering  [of  her  room  in  Cheyne  Row],  and  you 
must  forgive  what  may  strike  you  as  weakly  fanciful  in  my  desire 
to  have  '  a  new  colour  about  me.'  You  must  consider  that  I  was 
carried  out  of  those  rooms  to  be  shoved  into  a  sort  of  hearse,  and 
(to  my  own  feelings)  buried  out  of  that  house  for  ever;  and  that  I 
have  not  had  time  yet,  nor  got  strength  enough  yet,  to  shake  off 
the  associations  that  make  those  rooms  terrible  for  me.  To  give 
them  somewhat  of  a  different  appearance  is  the  most  soothing 
thing  that  can  be  done  for  me.' 

August  ^Q. — No  sleep  at  all  last  night;  had  no  chance  of  sleep, 
for  the  neuralgic  pains  piercing  me  from  shoulder  to  breast  like  a 
sword.  I  am  profoundly  disheartened.  Every  way  I  turn  it  looks 
dark,  dark  to  me.  I  had  dared  to  hope,  to  look  forward  to  some 
years  of  health — no  worse,  at  least,  than  I  had  before.  I  cannot 
write  cheerfully.     I  am  not  cheerful. 

1  Poor,  forlorn  darling!  All  this  was  managed. to  her  mind— all  this  yet 
stands  mournfully  here,  and  shall  stand. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  227 

September  6. — Oh,  that  it  was  as  easy  to  put  tormenting  thoughts 
out  of  one's  own  head  as  it  is  for  others  to  bid  one  do  that!  I  wish 
to  heaven  you  were  delivered  from  those  paper-hangers.  I  did  not 
think  it  would  have  been  so  long  in  the  wind.     I,  the  unlucky 

cause,  am  quite  as  sorry  for  the  botheration  to  you  as expresses 

herself,  though  I  have  more  appreciation  of  the  terrible  half-insane 
sensitiveness  which  drove  me  on  to  bothering  you,  Oh,  if  God 
would  only  lift  my  trouble  off  me  so  far  that  I  could  bear  it  all  in 
silence,  and  not  add  to  the  troubles  of  others! 

September  7. — I  cannot  write.  I  have  passed  a  terrible  night. 
Sleeplessness  and  restlessness  and  the  old  pain  (worse  than  it  has 
ever  been  since  I  came  here) ;  and,  in  addition  to  all  that,  an  inward 
blackness  of  darkness.  Am  I  going  to  have  another  winter  like 
the  last?  I  cannot  live  through  another  such  time:  my  reason,  at 
least,  cannot  live  through  it.     Oh,  God  bless  you  aud  help  me ! 

September  9. — I  am  very  stupid  and  low.  God  can  raise  me  up 
again;  but  will  He?  Oh,  I  am  weary,  weary!  My  dear,  when  I 
have  been  giving  directions  about  the  house  then  a  feeling  like  a 
great  black  wave  will  roll  over  my  breast,  and  I  say  to  myself, 
whatever  pains  be  taken  to  gratify  me,  shall  I  ever  more  have  a 
day  of  ease,  of  painlessness,  or  a  night  of  sweet  rest,  in  that  house,  or 
in  any  house  but  the  dark  narrow  one  where  I  shall  arrive  at  last. 

September  16. — Oh,  if  there  was  any  sleep  to  be  got  in  that  bed 
wherever  it  stands!  [alluding  to  a  change  in  the  position  of  her  bed 
at  Chelsea.]  But  it  looks  to  my  excited  imagination,  that  bed  I 
was  born  in,  like  a  sort  of  instrument  of  red-hot  torture;  after  all 
those  nights  that  I  lay  meditating  on  self-destruction  as  my  only 
escape  from  insanity.  Oh,  the  terriblest  part  of  my  suffering  has 
not  been  what  was  seen,  has  not  been  what  could  be  put  into 
human  language! 

September  26,  1864. — Oh,  my  dear!  I  thank  God  I  got  some  little 
sleep  last  night!  for  I  had  been  going  from  bad  to  worse,  till  I  had 
reached  a  point  that  seemed  to  take  me  back  to  the  time  just  before 
I  left  Marina,  and  to  give  to  that  time  additional  poignancy.  I 
had  tho  quite  recent  remembrance  of  some  weeks  of  such  compara- 
tive ease  and  well-ness!  Oh,  this  relapse  is  a  severe  disappoint- 
ment to  me,  and'  God  knows,  not  altogether  a  seltish  disappoint, 
ment!  I  had  looked  forward  to  going  back  to  you  so  much 
improved,  as  to  be,  if  not  of  any  use  and  comfort  to  you,  at  least 
no  trouble  to  you,  and  no  burden  on  your  spirits! '     And  now  God 

>  Ob,  my  poor  martyr  darling  1 


238  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

knows  bow  it  will  be!  Sometimes  I  feel  a  deadly  assurance  that  I 
am  progressiug  towards  just  sucb  anotber  winter  as  the  last!  only 
what  little  courage  and  hope  supported  me  in  the  beginning,  worn 
out  now,  and  ground  into  dust,  under  long  fiery  suffering! 

Dr.  Russell  says,  as  Dr.  B said,  that  the  special  misery  will 

certainly  wear  itself  out  in  time;  if  I  can  only  eat  and  keep  up 
my  strength,  that  it  may  not  wear  out  me!  But  how  keep  up  my 
strength  without  sleep? 

Oh  dear!  you  cannot  help  me,  though  you  would!  Nobody  can 
help  me!  Only  God:  and  can  I  wonder  if  God  take  no  heed  of 
me  when  I  have  all  my  life  taken  so  little  heed  of  Him? 

John  is  coming  to-day  to  settle  about  the  journey.  When  I 
spoke  so  bravely  about  going  alone,  I  was  much  betoer  thar  I  am 
at  present.  I  am  up  to  nothing  of  the  sort  now,  and  must  be 
thankful  for  his  escort,  the  best  that  offers.  He  says  Saturday 
is  the  best  day.  But  I  don't  incline  to  arriving  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  so  I  shall  vote  for  Friday  night.  But  j'^ou  will  hear 
from  me  again  and  again  before  then. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

J.  W.  Caklyle. 

LETTER  284. 
Thomas  Caiiyle,  Chelsea,  London. 

Holm  HUl:  Wednesday,  Sept.  28,  1864. 

Again  a  niglit  absolutely  sleepless,  except  for  a  little  dozing  be- 
tween six  and  seven.  There  were  no  shooting  pains  to  keep  me 
awake  last  night,  although  I  felt  terriblj'  chill,  in  spite  of  a  heap  of 
blankets  that  kept  me  in  a  sweat;  but  it  was  a  cold  sweat.  I  am 
very  wretched  to-da3\  Dr.  Russell  handed  me  the  other  night  a 
medical  book  he  was  reading,  open  at  the  chapter  on  '  Neuralgia ' 
that  I  might  read,  for  my  practical  information,  a  list  of  '  counter- 
irritants.' 

I  read  a  sentence  or  two  more  than  was  meant,  ending  with  '  this 
lady  was  bent  on  self-destruction.'  You  may  think  it  a  strange 
comfort,  but  it  was  a  sort  of  comfort  to  me  to  find  that  my  dread- 
ful wretchedness  was  a  not  uncommon  feature  of  my  disease,  and 
not  merely  an  expression  of  individual  cowardice. 

Another  strange  comfort  I  take  to  myself  under  the  present  pres- 
sure of  horrible  nights.  If  I  had  continued  up  till  now  to  feel  as 
much  better  as  I  did  in  the  first  weeks  of  my  stay  here,  I  should 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  229 

have  dreaded  the  return  to  London  as  a  sort  of  suicide.  Now  I 
again  want  a  change — even  that  change!  There  lies  a  possibility, 
at  least,  of  benefit  in  it;  which  I  could  not  have  admitted  to  myself 
had  all  gone  on  here  as  in  the  beginning. 

I  am  verj^  sorry  for  Lady  Ashburton,  am  afraid  her  health  is 
irretrievably  ruined.     Pray  do  write  her  a  few  lines.' 

It  has  been  a  chill  mist,  from  the  water  all  the  morning,  but  the 
sun  is  trying  to  break  through. 

God  send  me  safe  back  to  you,  such  as  I  am. 

Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  285. 
Thomas  Carlyle,  Chelsea,  London. 

Holm  Hill:  Thursday,  Sept.  29,  1864. 

This,  then,  is  to  be  my  last  letter  from  here.  Where  will  the 
next  letter  be  from,  or  will  there  be  a  next?  Blind  moles!  With 
our  pride  of  insight  too!  we  can't  tell  even  that  much  beforehand. 

If  I  had  trusted  my  power  of  divination  yesterday  I  should  have 
renounced  all  hope  of  seeing  j'ou  this  week.  I  had  to  go  to  bed  at 
five  in  the  afternoon,  in  a  sort  of  nervous  fever  from  want  of  sleep. 
The  irritation,  too,  unbearable!  That  clammy,  deathly  sweat,  in 
■which  I  had  passed  the  previous  night,  as  if  I  had  been  dipped  in 
ice-water,  then  placed  under  a  crushing  weight  of  frozen  blankets, 
seemed  to  have  taken  all  warm  life  out  of  me.     So  I  gave  up  and 

went  to  bed.     At  night  I  took  one  of  Dr.  B 's  blue  pills  (the 

larger  dose  had  ceased  to  be  beneficial)  and  about  twelve  I  fell 
asleep,  thank  God !  and  went  on  sleeping  and  waking  till  half-past 
seven.  It  was  healing  sleep,  besides  being  a  good  deal  of  it.  My 
first  reflection  this  morning  was:  And  there  are  beggars — nay, 
there  are  blackguards,  or  both  in  one — who  get  every  night  of 
their  lives  far  belter  sleep  than  even  this,  which  is  such  an  un- 
speakable mercy  to  me.  Ach!  it  is  no  discovery  that  much  in  this 
world  quite  surpasses  one's  human  comprehension. 

I  have  been  thrown  out  of  my  reckoning.  I  had  calculated  that 
on  the  principle  of  a  bad  night,  and  a  less  bad,  the  less  bad  would 
fall  to-night;  and  that  I  sliould  have  some  sleep  in  me  to  start  with. 
But  two  waking  nights  conung  together  changes  the  order;  and  to- 
night, in  the  course  of  nature  (second  nature),  no  rest  is  to  be  ex- 
pected. 

>  Is  again  in  vigorous  health. 


280  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Tell  Mary  I  now  take  coffee  to  breakfast  (John  takes  tea);  and 
to  have  a  little  cream  in  the  house  that  one  may  fall  soft. 

And  now  good-bye  till  we  meet.  Oh,  that  I  had  been  a  day  and 
night  (and  the  night  a  good  one)  in  the  house!  No  mortal  can 
imagine  the  thoughts  of  my  heart  in  returning  there,  where  I  was 
buried  from!  and  my  life  still  unrenewed!  only  the  hope,  often 
overcast,  that  it  is  in  the  way  of  being  renewed. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

My  little  maid  asked  me  this  morning,  when  about  to  draw  on  ray 
stockings:  'What  d'ye  think?  wouldn't  it  be  a  good  thing  to  hae 
the  taes  (toes)  clippet  again,  afore  ye  gang  away?  '  I  shall  so  miss 
that  kind,  thoughtful  girl  ! 

LETTER  286. 

Saturday,  October  1,  1864,  a  mild,  clear  (not  sunny)  day.  John 
brought  her  home  to  me  again  to  this  door — by  far  the  gladdest 
sight  I  shall  ever  see  there,  if  gladness  were  the  name  of  any  sight 
now  in  store  for  me.  A  faint,  kind,  timid  smile  was  on  her  face, 
as  if  afraid  to  believe  f idly ;  but  the  despair  had  vanished  from  her 
looks  altogether,  and  she  was  brought  back  to  me,  my  own  again 
as  before. 

During  all  this  black  interval  I  had  been  continuing  my  '  coma- 
tose flight '  without  intermission,  and  was  not  yet  by  four  months 
got  to  land.  To  extraneous  events  my  attention  was  momentary, 
if  not  extinct  altogether;  for  months  and  years  I  had  not  written 
the  smallest  letter  or  note  except  on  absolute  compulsion.  But 
here  was  an  event  extraneous  to  '  Frederick,'  which  could  not  be 
extraneous  to  '  Frederick's '  biographer,  never  so  worn  out  and 
crushed  into  stupefaction.  This  again  woke  me  into  life  and  hope, 
into  vivid  and  grateful  recognition,  and  was  again  a  light,  or  the 
sure  promise  of  a  light  from  above  on  my  nigh  desperate  course. 
(Oh,  what  miserable  inapplicable  phrasing  is  this!  or  why  speak  of 
myself  at  all?) 

My  poor  martyred  darling  continued  to  prosper  here  beyond  my 
hopes — far  beyond  her  own;  and  in  spite  of  utter  weakness  (which 
I  never  rightly  saw)  and  of  many  fits  of  trouble,  her  life  to  the  very 
end  continued  beautiful  and  hopeful  to  both  of  us — to  me  more 
beautiful  than  I  had  ever  seen  it  in  her  best  days.  Strange  and 
precious  to  look  back  upon,  those  last  eighteen  montlis,  as  of  a 
second  youth  (almost  a  second  childhood  with  the  wisdom  and 
graces  of  old  age),  which  by  Heaven's  great  mercy  were  conceded 
her  and  me.  In  essentials  never  had  she  been  so  beautiful  to  me; 
never  in  my  time  been  so  happy.  But  I  am  unfit  to  speak  of  these 
things,  to-day  most  unfit  (August  12,  1869),  and  will  leave  the  little 
series  of  letters  (which  were  revised  several  days  ago)  to  tell  their 
own  beautiful  and  tragical  story. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  281 


Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  Thornhill,  Dumfriesshire. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  Oct.  3, 1864. 

Oh,  my  darling!  my  darling!  God  forever  bless  you — you  and 
dear  Dr.  Russell,  for  your  goodness  to  me,  your  patience  with  me, 
and  all  the  good  you  have  done  me!  I  am  better  aware  now 
how  much  I  have  gained  than  I  was  before  this  journey;  how  much 
stronger  I  am,  both  body  and  mind,  than  I  was  on  my  journey  to 
Scotland.  I  felt  no  fatigue  on  the  journey  down,  but  I  made  up 
for  it  in  nervous  excitement!  On  the  journey  up,  all  my  nervous- 
ness was  over  when  I  had  parted  with  you  two.  Even  when  ar- 
rived at  my  own  door  (which  I  had  always  looked  forward  to  as  a 
most  terrible  moment,  remembering  the  hearse-like  fashion  in  which 
I  was  carried  away  from  it)  I  could  possess  my  soul  in  quiet,  and 
meet  the  excited  people  who  rushed  out  to  me,  as  gladly  as  if  I  had 
been  returned  from  any  ordinary  pleasure  excursion ! 

Very  excited  people  they  were.  Dr.  C.  had  stupidly  told  his 
brother  he  might  look  for  us  about  ten,  and,  as  we  did  not  arrive 
till  half  after  eleven,  Mr.  C.  had  settled  it  in  his  own  mind  that  I 
had  teen  taken  ill  somewhere  on  the  road,  and  was  momentarily 
expecting  a  telegram  to  say  I  was  dead.  So  he  rushed  out  in  his 
dressing-gown,  and  kissed  me,  and  wept  over  me  as  I  was  m  the 
act  of  getting  down  out  of  the  cab  (much  to  the  edification  of  the 
neighbours  at  their  windows,  I  have  no  doubt);  and  then  the  maids 
appeared  behind  him,  looking  timidly,  with  flushed  faces  and  tears 
in  their  eyes;  and  the  little  one  (the  cook)  threw  her  arms  round 
my  neck  and  fell  to  kissing  me  in  the  open  street;  and  the  big  one 
(the  housemaid)  I  had  to  kiss,  that  she  might  not  be  made  jealous 
the  first  thing. 

They  were  all  astonished  at  the  improvement  in  my  appearance. 
Mr.  C.  has  said  again  and  again  that  he  would  not  have  believed 
anyone  who  had  sworn  it  to  him  that  I  should  retvu-n  so  changed 
for  the  better.  Breakfast  was  presented  to  me,  but  though  I  had 
still  Holm  Hill  things  to  eat,  I  had  not  my  Holm  Hill  appetite  to 
eat  them  with.  All  Saturday  there  was  nothing  I  cared  to  swallow 
but  champagne  (Lady  Asiiburton  had  sent  me  two  dozen,  first-rate. 

in  the  winter);  so  I  took  tlie  B blue  pill  that  first  night,  as  Dr. 

Russell  had  advised.  And,  oh,  such  a  heavenly  sleep  i  had!  awoke 
only  twice  the  whole  night!  It  is  worth  while  passing  a  whole 
night  on  the  railway  to  get  such  blessed  sleep  tlie  night  after.  Last 
night,  again,  I  slept;  not  so  well  as  the  first  night,  of  course,  but 


23S  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

wonderfully  well  for  me;  and  this  morning  my  breakfast  was  not 
contemptible.  But  it  is  a  great  hardship  to  have  lost  my  warm 
milk  in  the  morning.  I  thought  by  paying  an  exorbitant  price  it 
might  have  been  obtained ;  but  no ;  the  stuff  offered  me  yesterday 
at  eight  o'clock  it  was  impossible  to  swallow.  And  my  poor  '  inte- 
rior,' perfectly  bewildered  by  all  the  sudden  changes  put  on  them, 
don't  seem  to  have  any  clear  ideas  left;  so  I  am  driven  back  into 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  pills! 

I  had  a  two-hours'  drive  yesterday  in  Battersea  Park  and  Clapham 
Common.  When  one  hasn't  the  beauties  of  nature,  one  must  con- 
tent one's  self  with  the  beauties  of  art.  To-day  my  drive  must  be 
town  ward;  so  many  things  wanted  at  the  shops!  There  is  hardly 
a  kitchen  utensil  left  unbroken;  all  broken  by  '  I  can't  imagine  who 
did  it! '  Still,  it  might  have  been  worse;  there  seems  to  have  been 
no  serious  mischief  done. 

Wasn't  it  curious  to  have  your  eternal  '  Simpson  '  given  me  for 
fellow-traveller? 

Oh,  my  darling,  if  I  might  continue  just  as  well  as  I  am  now! 
But  that  is  not  to  be  hoped.  Anyhow,  I  shall  always  feel  as  if  I 
owed  my  life  chiefly  to  your  husband  and  you,  who  procured  me 
Ruch  rest  as  I  could  have  had  nowhere  else  in  the  world. 

Your  own 

Jane  W.  C. 

LETTER  287. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  Thornhill,  DumfriessMre. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thiireday,  Oct.  6,  1864. 
Dearest, — At  Holm  Hill,  at  this  hour,  I  should  have  just  drunk 
my  glass  of  wine,  and  been  sitting  down  at  the  dining-room  table 
to  write  the  daily  letter  to  Mr.  C.  The  likest  thing  I  can  do  here  is 
to  sit  down  at  the  drawing-room  table  and  write  to  you.  I  feel  the 
same  sort  of  responsibility  for  myself  to  you,  as  to  him,  and  to  you 
only,  of  all  people  alive!  and  feel,  too,  the  same  certainty  of  being 
read  with  anxious  interest.  Oh,  my  dear  Mary,  it  is  an  unspeak- 
able blessing  to  have  such  a  friend  as  you  are  to  me!  Often, 
when  I  have  felt  unusually  free  from  my  misery  of  late,  it  has 
seemed  to  me  that  I  could  not  be  grateful  enough  to  God  for  the 
mercy;  unless  He  inspired  me  with  a  spiritual  gratitude,  far  above 
the  mere  tepid  human  gratitude  I  offered  Him!  And  just  so  with 
you :  I  feel  as  if  I  needed  God's  help  to  make  me  humanly  capable 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  283 

of  the  sort  of  sacred  thankfulness  I  ought  to  feel  for  such  a  friend 
as  yourself  !  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  and  your  dear  husband  some- 
thing like  this  when  I  came  away,  but  words  choked  themselves  in 
my  throat  at  parting. 

I  have  been  wonderfully  well  since  I  came  home;  have  slept 
pretty  well — not  as  on  the  first  night  (that  was  sleep  for  only  the 
angels,  and  for  the  mortal  who  had  travelled  from  three  to  four 
hundred  miles  through  the  night!),  but  quite  tolerably  for  me, 
every  night  till  the  last.  The  last  was  very  bad.  But  I  had  the 
comfort  of  being  able  to  blame  something  for  it,  and  that  was  my 
own  imprudence. 

I  wearied  myself  putting  pictures  to  rights,  which  were  hung  up 
all  crooked  (Dr.  Russell  will  sympathise  with  me),  and  then  wor- 
ried myself  with  the  shortcomings  of  my  large  beautiful  house- 
maid, who  justifies  (aud  more)  all  Mr  C.'s  tirades  against  her! 
This  creature,  with  her  goosishness,  and  her  self-conceit,  is  unen- 
durable after  little  Mary. 

Only  think!  I  get  my  new  milk  again,  at  eight,  as  usual!  Our 
Rector's  wife  keeps  a  cow  for  her  children,  and  I  have  a  key  to 
her  grounds;  and,  going  through  that  way,  it  is  not  three  minutes' 
walk  for  my  cook  to  take  a  warm  tumbler  and  fetch  it  back  full 
of  real  milk,  milked  into  it  there  and  then.  I  get  plenty  of  cream, 
quite  good,  paying  for  it  exorbitantly;  but  no  matter,  so  that  I 
get  it.  My  eight  stones  eleven-anda-half  would  soon  have  had  a 
hole  made  into  it  without  the  milk  and  cream. 

I  go  out  in  a  nice  brougham,  with  a  safe  swift  horse,  whom  I 
know,  every  day  from  one  till  three.  And,  when  I  come  in,  I 
have  added  your  little  tumbler  full  of  excellent  cliampagne  to  the 
already  liberal  allowance  of  drink!  !  !  It  is  tc  make  up  for  the 
difference  in  the  purity  of  the  air!    ! 

The  letters  Dr.   Russell  forwarded   were  from  Dr.  B and 

Maria  (the  maid).  I  send  llicm  back,  the  doctor's  for  Dr.  Russell, 
and  Maria's  for  you,  to  amuse  you  with  the  girl's  presumption ! 
My  'eternal  good.'  Help  us!  if  Maria  is  to  preach  to  me!  Here 
is  a  letter  from  Grace  "Welsh,  too.  Everybody  '  praying  for  me. ' 
Burn  them  all — I  mean  the  letters — when  you  have  done  with 
them. 

God  bless  my  darling. 

Jjlne  W.  Carltle. 


234  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


LETTER  288. 

'  Curiosities  and  niceties  of  a  civilised  house.' — Old  piirase  of  my 
father's. 

'Elise's.' — Madame  Elise,  she  often  told  me,  was  an  artist  and 
woman  of  genius  in  her  profession;  and  of  late  years  there  had 
sprung  up  a  mutual  recognition,  which  was  often  pleasant  to  my 
dear  one. — T.  C. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  Thornhill,  Dumfriesshire. 

B  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  Oct.  10, 1864. 
Dearest, — Nature  prompts  me  to  begin  the  week  with  writing  to 
you,  though  I  have  such  a  pressure  of  work  ahead  as  I  can't  see 
daylight  through,  with  no  help  in  putting  to  rights;  for  my  large, 
beautiful  housemaid  is  like  a  cow  in  a  flower-garden  amongst  the 
'curiosities  and  niceties'  of  a  civilised  house!  Oh,  thank  God,  for 
the  precious  layer  of  impassivity  which  that  stone  weight  of  flesh 
has  put  over  my  nerves!  I  am  not  like  the  same  woman  who 
trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  panted  like  a  duck  in  a  thunder- 
storm, at  St.  Leonards  whenever  a  human  face  showed  itself  from 
without,  or  anything  worried  from  within.  Indeed,  my  nerves 
are  stronger  than  they  have  been  for  years.  Just  for  instance,  yes- 
terday, what  I  went  through  without  having  the  irritation  in- 
creased, or  my  sleep  worsened!  As  soon  as  I  was  in  the  drawing- 
room  George  Cooke  came — the  same  who  wrote  to  tell  you  of  my 
accident.  Now  this  George  Cooke  is  a  man  between  thirty  and 
forty;  tall,  strong,  silent,  sincere;  has  been  a  sailor,  a  soldier,  a 
New  Zealand  settler,  a  '  man  about  town,'  and  a  stockbroker!  The 
last  man  on  earth  one  would  have  expected  to  make  one  '  a  scene.' 
But  lo!  what  happened?  I  stood  up  to  welcome  him,  and  he  took 
me  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  me  two  or  three  times,  and  then  he 
sank  into  a  chair  and — burst  into  tears!  and  sobbed  and  cried  for 
a  minute  or  two  like  any  schoolboy.  Mercifully  I  was  not  in- 
fected by  his  agitation;  but  it  was  I  who  spoke  calmly,  and 
brought  him  out  of  it!  He  accompanied  me  in  ray  drive  after, 
and  when  I  had  come  home,  and  was  going  to  have  my  dinner,  a 
carriage  drove  up.  Being  nothing  like  so  polite  and  self-sacrificing 
as  you,  I  told  Helen  to  say  I  was  tired,  and  dining,  and  would  see 
no  one.  She  returned  with  a  card.  '  Please,  ma'am,  the  gentle- 
man says  he  thinks  you  will  see  him.'  The  name  on  the  card  was 
Lord  Houghton,  a  very  old  friend  whom  you  may  have  heard  me 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  235 

speak  of  as  Richard  Milnes.  '  Oh,  yes!  he  might  come  up.'  No- 
body could  have  predicted  sentiment  out  of  Lord  Houghton!  but, 
good  gracious!  it  was  tlie  same  thing  over  again.  He  clasped  me 
in  his  arms,  and  kissed  me,  and  dropped  on  a  chair — not  crying, 
but  quite  pale,  and  gasping,  without  being  able  to  say  a  word. 

When  the  emotional  stage  was  over,  and  we  were  talking  of  my 
saty  at  Holm  Hill,  I  mentioned  the  hon-id  thing  that  befell  just 

when  I  was  leaving — the  death  of  Mrs. .     'Where?'  said  Lord 

Houghton.     '  At Hall.'    He  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  shot,  and 

repeated,  'Dead?  dead?  dead?'  till  I  was  quite  frightened.  'Oh, 
did  you  know  her? '  I  asked.  'I  am  sorry  to  have  shocked  you.' 
'Know  her?  I  have  known  her  intimately  since  she  was  a  little 
girl !     I  was  to  have  gone  to  visit  her  this  month.' 

He  told  me  she  bad  had  a  romantic  history.  She  was  grand- 
daughter to  a  brother  of  the who  was  Secretary  of  State  at 

Naples.  The  family  got  reduced,  but  struggled  bravely  to  keep 
up  their  rank  in  Naples;  chietly  helped  by  this  girl  who  was  'most 
brave  and  generous.'  They  afterwards  came  to  England,  and 
here,  too,  it  was  a  struggle.  '  The  girl '  went  on  a  visit,  and  at  her 
friend's  house  Mr.  saw  her,  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  pro- 
posed to  her.  '  The  girl '  shuddered  at  him.  He  was  a  coarse,  un- 
cultivated man,  perfectly  unlike  her,  and  she  would  not  hear  of 
such  a  maiTiage ;  but  the  father  and  mother  gathered  round  her, 
and  implored,  and  reasoned,  and  impressed  on  her  that  with  so 
rich  a  husband  she  would  be  able  to  lift  them  out  of  all  their  diffi- 
culties, and  make  their  old  age  comfortable  and  happy,  till  at 
length  she  gave  in.  Having  once  married  the  man.  Lord  H.  said, 
she  made  him  a  good  wife  and  he  was  a  good  husband. 

After  these  two  enthusiastic  meetings,  I  was  sure  I  should  get 
no  sleep.  But  I  slept  much  as  usual  during  the  last  week;  not  at 
all  as  I  slept  the  first  night,  but  better  than  my  fraction  of  sleep 
during  the  last  weeks  with  you. 

My  bedroom  is  extremely  quiet  ;  my  comfort  well  attended  to 
by — myself.  I  miss  little  Mary  for  more  things  than  '  the  clipping 
o'  the  taes,'  bless  her!  I  was  at  Elisc's,  to  get  the  velvet  bonnet 
she  made  me  last  year,  stripped  of  its  finery.  White  lace  and  red 
roses  don't  become  a  woman  who  has  been  looking  both  death  and 
insanity  in  the  face  for  a  year.     I  told  her  (Elise)  that  I  had  seen 

two  of  her  bonnets  on  a  Mrs.  H in  Scotland.     '  Oh,  yes,  she 

has  every  article  she  wears  from  here!'  'You  made  her  court 
dress,  didn't  you,  that  was  noticed  in  the  ' '  Morning  Post "  ? '    '  Yes, 


338  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

yes,  I  dressed  the  whole  three.     Mrs.  H's  dress  cost  three  hundred 
pounds!  but  she  doesn't  mind  cost.' 
Dear  love  to  the  Doctor. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  Carlylk. 

LETTER  289. 
John  Forster,  Esq.,  Palace- Gate  House,  Kensington. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  October  1864. 

Dearest  Mr.  Forster,— Now  that  Mr.  C.  has  me  here  before  his 
eyes,  in  an  upright  posture,  he  considers  it  not  only  my  business, 
but  my  wifely  duty  to  answer  all  inquiries  about  me,  myself.  I 
have  then  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  informing  you  and  dear 
'  Small  Individual '  that  I  am  returned  to  this  foggy  scene  of  things 
with  no  intentions  of  further  travels  for  the  present.  I  not  only 
'  stood  '  the  long  night  journey  (they  always  bid  me  travel  by  night) 
very  well,  but,  as  on  the  journey  down,  it  procured  me  one  night 
of  heavenly  sleep;  and,  as  nervous  illness  is  more  benefited  by 
change  than  anything  else,  I  felt,  for  the  first  week  after  my  return, 
even  better  than  in  the  first  weeks  of  my  stay  in  Scotland.  The 
almost  miraculous  improvement  is  now  wearing  off.  I  have  again 
miserable  nights,  and  plenty  of  pain  intermittently.  Still  I  am  a 
stone  heavier  (!);  and,  in  every  way,  an  improved  woman  from  what 
I  was  when  you  did  not  see  me  at  Marina.  But  you  will  soon  be 
here  to  take  a  look  at  me,  and  judge  for  yourself.  I  hope  you 
won't  be  so  shocked  as  my  carpenter,  who  told  me  yesterday :  '  I 
am  very  sorry  indeed,  ma'am,  to  see  j^ou  fallen  so  suddenly  into  in- 
firmity! There  is  a  sad  change  since  I  saw  you  last! '  And  me  a 
stone  heavier! 

Best  love  to  her. 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 

Jake  Carltlk, 

LETTER  290. 

To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

5  Clieyne  Row:  Tuesday,  Oct.  18, 1864. 
Oh,  little  woman!  you  will  come  to  our  aid,  if  possible;  but  if 
impossible,  what  on  earth  are  we  to  do  for  eggs?    At  this  present 
Mr.  C.  is  breakfasting  on  shop-eggs,  and  doesn't  know  it ;  and  I  am 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE,  337 

every  morning  expecting  to  hear  in  my  bed  an  explosion  over  some 
one  too  far  gone  for  his  making  himself  an  allusion  about  it.  All 
the  people  who  kept  fowls  round  about  have,  the  maids  say,  dur- 
ing my  absence  ceased  to  keep  them,  and  the  two  eggs  from  Addis- 
combe  three  times  a  week  are  not  enough  for  us  both ;  I,  'as  one 
solitary  individual,' needing  three  in  the  day — one  for  breakfast, 
one  in  hot  milk  for  luncheon,  and  one  in  my  small  pudding  at  din- 
ner. When  I  left  Holm  Hill,  Mrs.  Russell  was  in  despair  over  her 
hens;  thirty  of  them  yielded  but  three  eggs  a  day.  Yours,  too, 
may  have  struck  work;  and  in  that  case  never  mind.  Only  if  you 
could  send  us  some,  it  would  be  a  mercy. 

Only  think  of  my  getting  here  every  morning  a  tumbler  of  milk 
warm  from  the  cow,  and  all  frothed  up,  just  as  at  the  Gill  and  at 
Holm  Hill,  to  my  infinite  benefit.  The  stable-fed  cow  does  not 
give  such  delicious  milk  as  those  living  on  grass  in  the  open  air; 
but  still  it  is  milk  without  a  drop  of  water  or  anything  in  it,  and 
milked  out  five  minutes  before  I  drink  it.  Mr.  C.  saj's  it  is  a  daily 
recurring  miracle.  The  miracle  is  worked  by  our  Rector's  wife, 
who  keeps  two  cows  for  her  children,  and  she  has  kindly  included 
me  as  '  the  biggest  and  best  child;  '  and  with  a  key  into  their  garden 
my  cook  can  run  to  their  stable  with  a  tumbler  and  be  back  at  my 
bedside  in  ten  minutes.  Indeed,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  who  is 
kindest  to  me ;  my  fear  is  always  that  I  shall  be  stifled  with  roses. 
They  make  so  much  of  me,  and  I  am  so  weak.  The  Countess  of 
Airlie  was  kne«ling  beside  my  sofa  yesterday  embracing  my  feet, 
and  kissing  my  hands!  A  German  girP  said  the  other  day,  'I 
think,  Mrs.  Carlyle,  a  many  many  peoples  love  you  very  dear! '  It 
is  true,  and  what  I  have  done  to  deserve  all  that  love  I  haven't  the 
remotest  conception.  All  this  time  I  have  been  keeping  better — 
getting  some  sleep,  not  much  nor  good;  but  some,  better  or  worse, 
every  night,  and  the  irritation  has  been  mucli  subsided.  Yesterday 
afternoon  and  this  afternoon  it  is  troubling  me  more  than  usual. 
Perliaps  the  damp  in  the  air  has  brought  it  on,  or  perhaps  I  have 
been  overdone  with  people  and  things;  I  must  be  more  careful.  I 
liave  always  a  terrible  consciousness  at  the  bottom  of  my  mind  that 
at  any  moment,  if  God  will,  I  may  be  thrown  back  into  the  old 
agonies.  I  can  never  feel  confident  of  life  and  of  ease  in  life  again, 
and  it  is  best  so. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  gentle  and  good  Mr.  Carlyle  is!  He  i8 
busy  as  ever,  Imt  he  studies  my  comfort  and  peace  as  he  never  did 

>  Reichenbach's  daughter,  probably. 


238  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

before.  I  have  engaged  a  new  housemaid,  and  given  warning  to 
the  big  beautiful  blockhead  who  has  filled  that  function  here  for 
the  last  nine  months;  this  has  been  a  worry  too.     God  bless  you  all. 

Your  affectionate 

jAiTE  W.  CaRLYLK. 

Ever  so  few  eggs  will  be  worth  carriage. 


LETTER  291. 

For  years  before  this  there  had  been  talk  from  me  of  a  brougham 
for  her;  to  which  she  listened  with  a  pleased  look,  but  always  in 
perfect  silence.  Latterly  I  had  been  more  stringent  and  immedi- 
ate upon  it;  and  had  not  I  been  so  smothered  under  'Frederick,' 
the  poor  little  enterprise  (finance  now  clearly  permitting)  would 
surely  have  been  achieved.  Alas,  why  was  not  it?  That  terrible 
street  accident,  for  instance,  might  have  been  avoided.  But  she 
continued  silent  when  I  spoke  or  proposed,  with  a  noble  delicacy 
all  her  own;  forebore  to  take  the  least  step;  would  not  even  by  a 
shake  of  the  head,  or  the  least  twinkle  of  satire  in  her  eyes,  pro- 
voke me  to  take  a  step.  Those  '  hired  flys '  so  many  per  week, 
which  were  my  lazy  succeclaneum,  had  to  be  almost  forced  upon 
her,  and  needed  argument.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  said  (what  was 
the  exact  truth),  '  No  wife  iu  England  deserves  better  to  have  a 
brougham  from  her  husband,  or  is  worthier  to  drive  in  it.  Wliy 
won't  you  go  and  buy  one  at  once?'  After  her  return  to  me  the 
propriety  and  necessity  was  still  more  evident;  but  her  answer 
still  was  (and  I  perceived  would  always  be)  that  fine,  childlike 
silence,  grateful,  pleased  look,  and  no  word  spoken. 

Whereupon  at  length — what  I  ever  since  reckon  among  the 
chosen  mercies  of  Heaven  to  me — I  did  at  last  myself  stir  in  the 
matter,  and  in  a  week  or  little  more  (she  also,  on  sight  of  this, 
skilfully  co-operating,  advising  me,  as  she  well  could)  the  long 
talked  of  was  got  done.  God  be  forever  thanked  that  I  did  not 
loiter  longer!  She  had  infinite  satisfaction  in  this  poor  gift;  was 
boundlessly  proud  of  it,  ;is  her  husband's  testimony  to  her;  be- 
lieved it  to  be  the  very  saving  of  her,  and  the  source  of  all  the 
health  she  had,  &c.  &c.  The  noble  little  soul!  So  pitiful  a  bit  of 
tribute  from  me,  and  to  her  it  was  richer  than  kingdoms. 

Oh,  when  she  was  taken  from  me,  and  I  used  in  my  gloomy 
walks  to  pass  that  door  where  the  carriage-maker  first  brought  it 
out  for  her  approval,  the  feeling  in  me  was  (and  at  times  still  is) 
deeper  than  tears;  and  my  heart  wept  tragicall}^  loving  tears, 
though  my  gloomy  eyes  were  dry!  And  her  mare,  named  'Bel- 
lona!'  There  is  a  bitter-sweet  in  all  that,  and  a  pious  wealth  of 
woe  and  love  that  will  abide  with  me  till  I  die.  No  more  of  it 
here  (August  14,  1869).— T.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  239 


Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  Thoi'nhill,  Dumfriesshire. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  Oct.  31, 1864. 

Dearest, — I  am  not  tied  to  two  hours  now  for  my  drive,  which 
was  long  enough  to  stay  out  in  a  'fly,'  costing,  as  it  did,  six  shiU 
lings!  I  have  now  set  up  a  nice  little  Brougham,  or  Clarence  (as 
you  call  it),  all  to  myself,  with  a  smart  grey  horse  and  an  elderly 
driver  (in  Mr.  C.'s  old  brown  surtout)!  I  was  at  half-a-dozen 
coachmakers'  yards  seeking  that  carriage,  examining  with  my  own 
eyes,  on  my  own  legs!  Of  course,  I  took  advice  as  to  the  outside 
quality.  Mr.  Fairie  and  the  livery-stable  man,  who  has  kept  Mr. 
C.'s  horse  these  dozen  years,  both  approved  my  choice,  and  con- 
sidered it  a  great  bargain.  Sixty  pounds,  and  perfectly  new,  and 
handsome  in  a  plain  way. 

It  needs  no  imbleached  linen  to  protect  it,  being  dark  blue 
morocco  and  cloth  inside,  which  won't  dirty  in  a  hurry;  and  it  is 
all  glass  in  front  like  Mrs.  Ewart's,  so  you  will  see  finely  about  you 
when  I  drive  you  to  see  the  lions  here.  That  prospect  is' one  of 
my  pleasures  in  the  new  equipage.  I  have  nothing  to  show  you 
like  the  drive  to  Sanquhar;  but  the  parks  here  are  very  beautiful, 
and  I  never  drive  through  them  now  without  fancying  you  at  my 
side  and  seeing  them  with  your  fresh  eyes.  Mr.  C.  expects  to  ac- 
tually finish  his  book  about  New  Year,  and  then — please  God  that 
I  keep  well  enough  for  it — we  go  to  Lady  Ashburton''s,  at  a  new 
place  she  has  got  in  Devonshire,  Avhere  it  will  be  warmer  than 
here,  and  evidently  I  can't  have  too  much  change!  When  we  come 
back,  and  the  weather  is  fit  for  the  journey,  the  Doctor  and  you 
must  come. 

It  has  been  moist,  even  rainy,  of  late;  and  damp  seems  to  suit  me 
worst  of  anything.  My  appetite  defies  quinine  to  bring  it  back, 
and  the  irritation  has  been  more  distressing.  Still,  I  am  no  worse, 
on  the  whole,  than  when  I  left  you ;  and  I  force  myself  to  take  al- 
ways the  new  milk  and  the  custard  at  twelve.  Tlicrc  is  a  weighing- 
machine  at  our  green-grocer's,  at  the  bottom  of  the  street,  but  I 
dare  not  get  myself  weighed. 

I  don't  like  that  photograph  of  Mary  at  all.  The  crinoline  quite 
changes  her  character  and  makes  her  a  stranger  for  me.  I  want 
the  one  that  is,  as  I  have  always  seen  lier,  a  sensiljle  girl  with  no 
crinoline.  I  would  like  lier,  if  she  would  get  herself  done  for  me, 
as  she  is  on  washing  mornings — in  the  little  pink  bed-gown  and 


240  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

blue  petticoat.     I  send  a  shilling  in  stamps  for  the  purpose,  but 
don't  force  her  inclinations  iu  the  matter. 

My  friend  Mr.  Forster  was  at  MilUer's  trial  the  last  day — saw  him 
receive  his  sentence,  and  said  he  behaved  very  well.  When  the 
sentence  was  pronounced  he  bowed  to  the  judge,  and  walked  away 
with  the  turnkey.  But  at  the  little  door  leading  down  from  the  court 
he  stopped,  and  said  to  the  turnkey  that  he  wished  to  say  a  few 
words  to  the  judge;  and  the  turnkey  led  him  back;  and  he  said 
something  which  could  not  be  heard,  on  account  of  his  keeping  his 
hand  at  his  mouth  to  steady  it.  Forster  said  the  only  sign  of  emo- 
tion he  had  given,  all  through  tlie  business,  was  a  quivering  of  his 
lips.  When  told  to  speak  out  he  removed  his  hand,  and  said 
courteously  to  the  judge:  '  I  have  had  a  most  fair  trial  I  but  I  can- 
not help  saying  some  of  the  worst  things  said  by  the  witnesses 
against  me  are  gross  falsehoods.'  Then  he  seemed  to  break  down, 
and  hurried  out.  I  am  certain,  had  it  not  been  that  every  juryman 
felt  his  personal  safety  on  the  railway  compromised  by  the  ac- 
quittal of  this  man,  he  would  not  have  been  condemned  to  death 
on  the  evidence.  It  is  clear  to  everybody  he  had  no  premeditation 
of  murder,  and  that  Mr.  Briggs  threw  himself  out  of  the  carriage, 
and  probably  caused  his  own  death  thereby.  The  poor  wretch,  re- 
turning from  his  visit  to  his  '  unfortunate,'  having  taken  a  second- 
class  ticket,  had  seen  Mr.  Briggs  with  his  glittering  watch-chain 
get  into  the  first-class  carriage,  and  jumped  in  after  him,  thinking 
tlie  chain  would  take  him  to  America.  It  was  to  take  him  to  a  far 
other  land!  Curious  that  he  got  off,  that  night,  without  the  dis- 
covery of  his  ticket  being  second-class.  The  train  had  been  very 
late,  and,  contrary  to  all  use  and  wont,  the  tickets  were  not  asked 
for  in  the  carnages. 

I  send  you  a  nice  letter  from  Thomas  Erskine,  the  author  of 
many  religious  books — which  I  never  read,  except  the  first  ('Evi- 
dences of  Christianity  ').  He  is  a  fine  old  Scotch  gentleman,  such 
as  are  hardly  to  be  found  extant  now.     Also  one  from  Lady  A. 

Love  to  the  Doctor.  Has  the  '  young  man '  from  Laich  been  to 
call  for  you? 

Tell  me  about  the  poor  woman  in  Thornhill  who  was  to  have  the 
operation.     Mrs.  Beck,  was  that  the  name? 

Kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Ewart,  and  compliments  to Mrs.  Mac- 
go  wan. 

Your  loving 

Jane  CARLYiii;. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  241 

Dr.  Carlyle  left  for  Lancashire  this  morning.     He  will  be  back  in 
Dumfries  shortly,  and  said  he  would  go  up  to  tell  you  about  me. 

LETTER  293. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Eolm  Hill,  ThornMll,  Dumfriesshire. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Saturday,  Nov.  12,  1864. 
Dearest  Mary, — At  the  beginning  of  this  cold,  during  the  time  I 
was  constantly  retching,  and  could  swallow  nothing,  I  got  a  moral 
shock  which  would,  I  think,  have  killed  me  at  St.  Leonards;  and 
all  it  did  to  me,  I  think,  was  to  astonish  and  disgust  me.  I  told 
you  I  was  parting  with  my  big  beautiful  housemaid  because  she 
was  an  incorrigible  goose,  and  destructive  and  wasteful  beyond 
all  human  endurance.  As  a  specimen  of  the  waste,  figure  three 
pounds  of  fresh  butter  at  twenty  pence  a  pound  regularly  con- 
sumed in  the  kitchen,  and  half  a  pound  of  tea  at  four  shillings 
made  away  with  in  four  days!  Then,  as  a  specimen  of  the  destruc- 
tion— figure  all,  every  one  of  my  beautiful,  fine,  and  some  of  them 
quite  new,  table  napkins  actually  '  worn  out'  of  existence!  Not  a 
rag  of  them  to  be  found;  and  good  sheets  all  in  rags;  besides  a 
boiler  burst,  a  pump-well  gone  irrecoverably  dry,  a  clock  made  to 
strike  fourteen  every  hour,  and  all  the  china  or  crockery  in  the 
house  either  disappeared  or  cracked  I  To  be  sure,  the  housemaid 
was  not  alone  to  bear  the  blame  of  all  the  mischief,  and  the  cook 
was  to  be  held  responsible  for  the  waste  of  victuals  at  least.  But 
Mary — the  one  who  attended  me  at  St  Leonards — though  the  slow- 
est and  stupidest  of  servants,  had  so  impressed  me  with  the  idea  of 
her  trustworthiness,  and  her  devotion  to  me,  that  I  could  accuse 
her  of  nothing  l)ut  stupidity  and  culpable  weakness  in  allowing  the 
other  girl,  seven  years  her  junior,  to  rule  even  in  the  larder!  Ac- 
CQrdinglj^  I  engaged  an  elderly  woman  to  be  cook  and  housekeeper, 
and  Mary  was  to  be  housemaid,  and  wait  on  me  as  usual.  Helen 
(the  housemaid)  meanwiiile  took  no  steps  about  seeking  a  place, 
and  when  I  urged  her  to  do  so,  declared  she  couldn't  conceive  why 
I  wanted  to  part  with  her.  When  I  told  her  she  was  too  destruc- 
tive for  my  means,  she  answered  excitedly:  '  Well!  when  I  am  out 
of  the  hou-se,  and  can't  bear  the  blame  of  everything  any  longer, 
you  will  then  find  out  who  it  is  that  makes  away  with  the  tea,  and 
the  butter,  and  all  the  things!'  As  lliere  was  nobody  else  to  bear 
the  blame  but  Mary,  and  as  I  trusted  her  implicitly,  I  thought  no 
better  of  the  girl  for  this  attempt  to  clear  herself  at  the  expense  of 
II.— 11 


242  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

nobody  knew  who;  especially  as  she  would  uot  explain  when  ques- 
tioned. When  I  told  slow,  innocent  Mary,  she  looked  quite 
amazed,  and  said:  'I  don't  think  Helen  knows  what  she  is  saying 
sometimes;  she  is  very  strange! ' 

Well,  Mary  asked  leave  to  go  and  see  her  family  in  Cambridge- 
shire before  the  new  servant  came  home,  and  got  it,  though  very 
inconvenient  to  me.  When  she  took  leave  of  me  the  night  before 
starting,  she  said  in  her  half-articulate  way:  'I  shall  be  always 
wondering  how  you  are  till  I  get  back.'  She  was  to  be  away 
nearly  a  week.  Mrs.  Southam,  who  sat  up  at  night  with  me  last 
winter,  my  Charlotte's  mother,  came  part  of  the  day  to  help 
Helen.  She  is  a  silent  woman,  never  meddling;  so  T  was  sur- 
prised when  she  said  to  me,  while  lighting  my  bedroom  fire,  the 
day  my  cold  was  so  bad :  '  Helen  tells  me,  ma'am,  you  are  part- 
ing with  her?'  'Full  time,'  said  I;  'she  is  a  perfect  goose.' 
'  You  know  best,  ma'am,'  said  the  woman;  '  but  I  always  like  ill  to 
see  the  innocent  suffering  for  the  guilty! '  '  What  do  you  mean? ' 
I  asked;  'who  is  the  innocent  and  who  is  the  guilty?'  'Well, 
ma'am,'  said  the  woman,  'it  is  known  to  all  the  neighbours  round 
here;  you  will  be  told  some  day,  and  if  I  don't  tell  you  now,  you 
will  blame  me  for  having  let  you  be  so  deceived.    Mary  is  the  worst 

of  girls! and  all  the  things  you  have  been  missing 

have  been  spent  on  her  man  and  her  friends.  There  has  been  con- 
stant company  kept  in  your  kitchen  since  there  was  no  fear  of  j'our 
seeing  it;  and  whenever  Helen  threatened  to  tell  you,  she  fright- 
ened her  into  silence  by  threats  of  poisoning  her  and  cutting  her 
own  throat ! ' 

Now,  my  dear,  if  you  had  seen  the  creature  Mary  you  would  just 
as  soon  have  suspected  the  Virgin  Mary  of  such  things!  But  I  have 
investigated,  and  found  it  all  true.  For  two  years  I  have  been 
cheated  and  made  a  fool  of,  and  laughed  at  for  my  softness,  by  this 
half-idiotic-looking  woman;  and  while  she  was  crying  up  in  my 
bedroom — moaning  out,  '  What  would  become  of  her  if  I  died?  ' 
and  witnessing  in  me  as  sad  a  spectacle  of  human  agony  as  could 
have  been  anywhere  seen;  she  was  giving  suppers  to  men  and 
women  downstairs;  laughing  and  swearing — oh,  it  is  too  dis- 
gusting! 

God  bless  you,  dearest, 

Jane  Cablylb. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  243 

LETTER  293. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Ilolin  Hill,  Thornhill,  Dumfriesshire. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Monday,  Dec.  20,  1864. 

Dearest  Friend, — If  it  is  as  cold,  and  snows  as  hard,  tliere  as 
here,  you  will  be  fancying  me  broken  down  if  I  don't  write  and  tell 
you  I  am  taking  all  that  very  easily;  driving  out  every  day  from 
two  to  three  hours,  as  usual.  The  cold  is  not  so  tr}ing  for  me  as 
the  damp,  I  find.  My  horse  has  not  stood  it  nearly  so  well!  I  had 
him  roughened  the  first  day  of  the  frost  and  suow,  but  nevertheless 
he  managed  to  get  a  strain  in  one  of  his  hind  legs,  and  is  now  in 
great  trouble,  poor  beast,  with  a  farrier  attending  him,  and  his  leg 
'swollen  awful! '  He  is  a  beautiful  grey  horse,  given  me,  whether 
I  would  or  no,  by  Lady  Ashburton;  but  young,  and,  I  am  afraid, 
too  sensitive  for  this  world!  '  Whenever  he  is  the  least  put  out  of 
his  way,  he  goes  off  his  food,'  the  groom  says.  Nobody  can  say 
■when  he  will  be  fit  for  work  again — if  ever.  Meanwhile  I  get  a 
horse  from  the  livery  stables. 

The  most  spirited  thing  I  have  done  since  j^ou  last  heard  of  me 
was  driving  to  Acton  witli — Madame  Elise!  to  see  her  beautiful 
place  there,  and  take  a  dinner-tea  with  her,  and  back  with  her,  ar- 
riving at  home  as  late  as  six  o'clock!  It  was  a  pleasant  little  excur- 
sion. Elsie,  as  a  woman,  with  a  house  and  children,  is  charming. 
It  is  a  magnificent  house,  with  a  dinuing-room  about  three  times 
the  size  of  the  Wallace  Hall  dining-room,  and  a  drawing-room  to 
match  j  both  rooms  fitted  up  with  the  artist-genius  she  displays  in 
her  dresses!  It  is  an  old  manor  house,  with  endless  passages;  and 
at  every  turn  of  the  passage  there  is  a  bust — Lord  Byron,  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott,  Pope,  Milton,  Locke. 

The  drawing-room  opens  into  a  conservatory  that  would  take  Mrs. 
Pringle's  into  a  small  corner  of  it.  There  is  an  immense  garden 
round  the  liouse,  with  greenhouses,  and  a  green  field  beyond  the 
garden,  with  sheep  in  it — clean  sheep!  A  middle-aged,  ladylike 
governess  took  charge  of  the  three  children:  perfect  little  beauties! 
and  the  nurse  and  other  maids  bad  the  air  of  '  a  great  family '  about 
them.  Tliey  all  treated  'Madame 'as  if  she  had  been  a  princess  I 
A  triimipii  of  genius! 

Tlie  only  drawback  to  my  satisfaction  was  a  dread  of  catching 
cold.  The  immense  rooms  had  immense  fires  in  them.  But  their 
size,  and  the  knowledge  that  they  were  only  lived  in  from  Saturday 


344  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

till  Monday  in  a  general  way,  give  me  a  sense  of  cliill ;  and  then  be- 
abroad  so  late  at  this  season  was  very  imprudent.  I  went  to  bed 
with  a  pain  in  my  shoulder  and  much  self -upbraiding;  but  got  some 
sleep,  and  no  harm  was  done. 

Do  you  know  that  bottle  of  whiskj^  you  gave  me  has  been  of  the 
greatest  use!  Things  affect  one  so  differently  at  different  times? 
Whisky  seemed  to  fever  me  at  Holm  Hill.  Here  it  calms  me,  and 
helps  me  to  sleep  I  take  a  tablespoonful  raw  when  I  get  desperate 
about  .sleeping,  and  invariablj',  hitherto,  with  good  effect.  I  take  no 
quinine,  nor  other  medicine,  at  present,  except  the  aperient  pills. 
Half  a  one  I  have  to  take  every  night.  The  potash-water  I  like 
very  much  with  my  wine  and  my  milk,  and  take  from  one  to  two 
bottles  of  it  every  day. 

I  have  not  been  weighed  again;  but  I  don't  think  I  can  have  lost 
any  more,  as  I  eat  better  since  the  new  cook  took  me  in  hand.  She 
continues  to  be  a  most  comfortable  servant:  such  courtesy!  such 
equability  of  temper!  such  obligingness!  and  all  that  so  cheap !  for 
the  weekly  bills  are  less  than  when  I  had  ignorant  servants.  The 
house-maid  is  also  a  good  servant,  but  not  so  agreeable  a  oue.  The 
droop  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  indicating  a  plaintive,  even  peev- 
ish, nature,  does  not  belie  her  I  think.  When  Mr.  C.  finds  fault, 
instead  of  going  to  do  what  he  wants,  she  cries  and  sulks.  When 
are  you  going  to  give  me  little  Mary?  My  compliments  to  her  and 
to  Lady  Macbeth. 

My  grateful  and  warm  love  to  your  husband.  To  yourself  a  hun- 
dred kisses.     I  will  write  soon  again. 

Your  true  friend, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  394. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  TliornJiill,  Dumfriesshire. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Dec.  27,  1864. 
Oh,  darlmg,  I  have  been  wanting  to  write  to  you  every  day  for  a 
week,  but  the  interruptions  have  been  endless,  and  the  unavoidable 
letters  many.  On  Christmas  Day  I  thought  I  should  have  a  quiet 
day  for  writing,  Mr.  C.  being  to  dine  at  Forster's.  But  a  young 
German  lady  of  whom  I  am  very  fond  '  could  not  let  me  be  left 
alone,'  and  came  at  eleven  in  the  morning  and  staj-ed  till  nine  at 
night;  and  then  our  Rector — bless  him! — came  when  he  left  church 
and  sat  with  me  till  eleven. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  245 

I  wonder  how  you  would  have  taken  a  thing  that  befell  me  last 
Wednesday?  I  was  waiting  before  a  shop  in  Regent  Street  for 
some  items  of  stationery;  and  a  young  woman,  black-eyed,  rosy- 
cheeked,  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  thrust  herself  up  to  the  carriage 
window  and  broke  forth  in  a  paroxysm  of  begging:  refusing  to 
stand  aside  even  when  the  shopman  was  showing  me  envelopes. 
Provoked  at  her  uoise  and  pertinacity,  I  said:  '  No,  I  will  give  you 
not  a  single  penny  as  an  encouragraent  to  annoy  others  as  you  are 
annoying  me.'  If  there  be  still  such  a  thing  as  the  evil  eye,  that 
beggar-woman  fixed  the  evil  eye  on  me,  and  said  slowly,  and  hiss- 
ing out  the  words:  '  This  is  Wednesday,  lady;  perhaps  you  will  be 
dead  by  Christinas  Day,  and  have  to  leave  all  behind  you!  Better 
to  have  given  me  a  little  of  it  now ! '  and  she  scuttled  away,  leaving 
me  with  the  novel  sensation  of  being  under  a  curse. 

Would  you  have  minded  that  after  the  moment?  I  can't  say  I 
took  it  to  heart.  At  the  same  time,  I  was  rather  glad  when,  Christ- 
mas being  over,  I  found  myself  alive  and  just  as  well  as  before. 

Dr.    B writes  that  his  wife  had  been   dreaming  about  me 

again.  Bessie  is  a  most  portentous  dreamer.  If  I  had  been  told 
this  between  the  Wednesday  and  Christmas  Day,  it  would  really 
have  frightened  me,  I  think. 

My  dear,  I  have  got  five  drops  of  my  heart's  blood  congealed 
and  fastened  together  to  encircle  your  wrist,  as  a  memorial  of  my 
last  visit  and  as  a  New  Year's  blessing.  I  am  hesitating  whether 
to  send  it  by  post  or  by  railway.  I  never  lost,  or  knew  personally 
of  anything  being  lost  by  post  except  the  Whigham  butterfly,  so  I 
had  best  risk  it;  there  is  sucli  confusion  of  parcels  by  rail  at  tills 
time  of  year.  Only  I  will  not  register  it,  as  I  always  think  that 
just  points  out  to  the  covetous  postman  what  is  worth  stealing. 

Please  to  send  a  single  line  or  an  old  newspaper  by  return  of 
post,  that  I  may  be  sure  the  thing  has  not  misgone. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  295. 

Sunday  night,  January  5,  1865,  went  out  to  post-offlce  with  my 
last  leaf  of  '  Frederick  '  MS.  Evening  still  vivid  to  me.  I  was  not 
joyful  of  mood;  sad  rather,  mournfully  tliankful,  but  indeed  half 
killed,  and  utterly  wearing  out  and  sinking  into  stujiefied  collapse 
after  my  'comatose'  efforts  to  continue  the  long  flight  of  thirteen 
years  to  firm.  On  her  face,  too,  when  I  went  out,  there  was  a  si- 
lent, faint,  and  pathetic  smile,  which  I  well  felt  at  the  moment, 


246  LETTEES  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

and  better  now!  Often  enough  had  it  cut  me  to  the  heart  to  think 
what  she  was  suifering  by  this  book,  in  whicli  she  liad  no  share,  no 
interest,  nor  any  word  at  all;  and  with  what  noble  and  perfect  con- 
stancy of  silence  she  bore  it  all.  My  own  heroic  little  woman ! 
For  long  months  after  this  I  sank  and  sank  into  ever  new  depths 
of  stupefaction  and  dull  misery  of  body  and  mind;  nay,  once  or 
twice  into  momentary  spurts  of  impatience  even  with  her,  which 
now  often  burn  me  with  vain  remorse  :  Madame  Elise,  e.g. — I 
sulkily  refused  to  alight  at  the  shop  there,  though  I  saw  and  knew 
she  genii}'  wished  it  (and  right  well  deserved  it);  Brompton  Muse- 
um (which  she  took  me  to,  always  so  glad  to  get  me  with  her,  and 
so  seldom  could).  Oh,  cruel,  cruel!  I  have  remembered  Johnson 
and  Uttoxeter,  on  thought  of  that  Elise  cruelty  more  than  once ; 
and  if  any  clear  energy  ever  returned  to  me,  might  some  day  imi- 
tate it.— T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  QUI,  Annan. 

5  Cheyue  Row,  Chelsea:  Feb.  1865. 

My  dear, — The  box  is  come,  and  this  time  the  eggs  have  been  a 
great  success,  not  a  single  one  broken!  Neitlier  were  the  cakes 
broken  to  any  inconvenient  degree.  Already  they  are  half  eaten, 
by  myself.  Mr.  C.  wouldn't  take  a  morsel  because  '  there  was  but- 
ter in  them — a  fatal  mistake  on  the  part  of  poor  Mary! '  I  told  him 
I  believed  it  was  not  butter  but  cream,  and  no  'mistake  '  at  all;  as 
the  cakes  you  made  for  me  in  that  way  at  the  Gill  agreed  with  me 
quite  well.  It  was  so  kind  of  you  to  take  immediate  note  of  my 
longing!  My  dear  little  woman,  you  not  only  do  kind  things,  but 
you  do  them  in  such  a  kind  way !  Many  a  kind  action  misses  the 
grateful  feelings  it  should  win  by  the  want  of  graciousness  in  the 
doing. 

I  continue  improving;  but  a  week  of  terrible  pain  has  given  me 
a  good  shake,  and  I  don't  feel  in  such  good  heart  about  the  Devon- 
shire visit  as  I  did.  Still  it  stands  settled  at  present  that  we  go  on 
the  20th,  God  willing.  For  how  long  will  depend  on  how  Mr.  C. 
gets  on  with  liis  sleep,  &c. 

I  shall  take  my  housemaid  with  me  as  lady's-maid;  for  I  shudder 
at  the  notion  of  being  at  the  mercy  of  other  people's  servants  when 
I  am  so  weak  and  easily  knoclicd  down.  She  is  a  very  respectable 
woman,  the  new  housemaid,  and  both  she  and  Mrs.  Warren  (the 
cook)  were  as  kind  to  me  as  kind  could  be  when  I  was  laid  up.  I 
never  was  so  well  cared  for  before,  and  with  so  little  fuss,  since  I 
left  my  mother's  house.  It  is  a  real  blessing  to  have  got  good,  effi- 
cient, comfortable  servants  at  last,  and  I  may  say  I  have  earned  it 
by  the  amount  of  bad  servants  I  have  endured. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  247 

I  have  a  great  deal  to  do  to-day,  and  little  strength;  so  good-bye. 

I  will  write  soon  again. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  296. 
Mrs.  Braid,  G-reen  End,  Edinburgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Feb.  14, 1865. 

My  own  dear  Betty!  Oh,  I  am  sorry  for  you!  sorrier  than  I  can 
say  in  words!  I  know  what  a  crushing  sorrow  this  will  be  for  you. 
I,  who  know  your  affectionate,  unselfisli  heart,  know  that  the  con- 
solations, which  some  would  see  for  you  in  poor  suffering  George's 
death,  will  be  rather  aggravations  of  the  misery!  Tliat  yo'^  should 
have  found  at  last  rest  from  the  ince.ssant,.  anxious,  wearing  cares, 
that  have  been  your  lot  for  years  and  j'eans — oh,  so  many  years — 
will  be  no  relief,  no  consolation  to  you!  This  rest  will  be  to  you, 
at  first  and  for  long,  more  irksome,  more  terrible  than  the  strain  on 
body  and  mind  that  went  before.  He  that  is  taken  from  you  was 
not  merely  j'our  own  only  son,  but  he  was  too  the  occupation  of 
your  life,  and  that  is  the  hardest  of  all  losses  to  bear  up  under! 
Oh,  Betty  darling,  I  wish  I  were  near  you !  If  I  had  my  arm  about 
your  neck,  and  your  hand  in  mine,  I  think  I  might  say  things  that 
would  comfort  you  a  little,  and  make  you  feel  that,  so  long  as  I  am 
in  life,  you  are  not  without  a  child  to  love  you.  Indeed,  indeed,  it 
is  the  sort  of  love  one  has  for  one's  own  mother  that  I  have  for 
you,  my  dearest  Betty!  But  here  I  am,  four  hundred  miles  away; 
and  with  so  little  power  of  locomotion  compared  with  what  I  once 
had!     And  the  words  fall  so  cold  and  flat  on  paper! 

I  have  been  dangerously  ill;  about  three  weeks  ago  I  got  a  chill, 
at  least  so  the  doctor  said,  and  the  result  was  inflammation  of  the 
bowels.  I  was  in  terrible  agony  for  some  days,  and  confined  to 
bed  for  a  week.  I  am  still  very  feeble  even  for  me;  but  there  is 
no  return  of  the  miserable  nervous  illness,  which  kept  me  so  ruined 
for  more  than  a  year.     I  cannot  write  much. 

Give  my  thanks  to  Mrs.  Duncan,'  who  seems  a  most  kind,  nice 

woman.    I  will  write  to  her  when  I  am  a  little  more  able.    My  kind 

regards  to  your  Imsband. 

Your  own  bairn, 

Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

'  Not  known  to  me. 


248  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 


LETTER  297. 

Seaforth  (near  Seaton,  Devonshire)  is  the  Dowager  Lady  Ash- 
burton's  pretty  cottage,  wlio  waited  for  us  at  the  station  that  Wed- 
nesday evening,  and  was  liiuduess  itself.  It  was  Wednesday,  March 
8,  1865,  wlien  we  made  the  journey.  The  day  was  dry  and  tem- 
perate; we  had  a  carriage  to  ourselves,  and  she  (though  far  weaker 
than  Iliad  the  least  idea  of — stupid  I!)  made  no  complaint,  nor, 
indeed,  took  any  harm ;  though  at  the  end  (Lady  Ashburton  hav- 
ing brought  an  open  carriage  unlit  for  the  coldish  evening  of  a  day 
so  bright),  we  had  to  wrap  our  invalid  in  quite  a  heap  of  rugs  and 
shawls,  covering  her  very  face  and  head ;  in  which  she  patiently 
acquiesced,  nor  did  she  suffer  by  it  afterwards. 

I  think  we  stayed  above  a  month ;  and  in  spite  of  the  noise,  the 
exposure,  etc.,  she  did  really  well,  slept  wonderfully,  and  was 
charming  in  her  cheerful  weakness.  She  drove  out  almost  or  alto- 
gether daily.  Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Trevelyan  were  close  neigh- 
bors, often  'fellow-guests.  Sir  Walter  and  I  rode  almost  daily,  on 
ponies;  talk  innocent,  quasi-scientific  even,  but  dull,  dull!  My 
days  were  heavy  laden,  but  had  in  them  something  of  hope.  My 
darling's  well-being  helped  much.  Ah,  me!  ah,  me!  We  drove 
to  Exeter  one  day  (Lady  A.,  a  Miss  Dempster,  and  we  two);  how 
pretty  and  cheery  her  ways  that  day !  Lady  A.  came  up  to  London 
with  us.  From  a  newspaper  we  learned  the  death  of  Cobden 
(which  may  serve  to  date  if  needed). — T.  C. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

,._v  Seaforth  Lodge,  Seaton,  Devonshire;  March  10, 1865. 

Dearest,— I  was  to  have  written  before  I  went  on  my  travels, 
but  adverse  circumstances  were  too  powerful.  First,  the  nausea, 
which  I  think  I  complained  of  in  my  last  letter,  kept  increasing,  so 
that  I  had  no  heart  to  do  anything  that  could  be  let  alone  till  the 
last  possible  moment;  and  my  last  days  were  cramped  full  of  shop- 
ping, and  packing,  and  leave-taking,  and  settling  with  workmen 
about  repairs,  and  white-washing  to  be  done  in  my  absence;  so 
that  any  moment  left  me  to  bless  myself  in  was  devoted  to  lying 
quite  down  on  the  sofa,  rather  than  letter-writing. 

When  we  started  on  Wednesday  morning,  with,  on  my  part,  no 
sleep  'to  speak  of,'  and  five  hours  of  railway  before  us,  besides  a 
carriage  drive  after,  my  mood  was  of  the  blackest.  But  George 
Cooke  was  at  the  station  to  look  after  our  luggage;  and,  halfway, 
the  sun  broke  out,  and  it  was  new  country  for  me  part  of  the  way, 
and  very  beautiful.  And  the  sheep,  bless  them,  were  not  only 
white  as  milk,  but  had  dear  wee  lambs  skipping  beside  them!  And 
the  river,  that  falls  into  the  sea  near  here,  was  not  muddy  and  slug- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  249 

gish,  like  all  the  rivers  (very  few  indeed)  I  tiad  seen  since  I  left  dear 
Nith — but  clear  as  crystal,  and  bright  blue.  And,  at  the  end,  such 
a  lovely  house,  on  a  high  cliff  overlooking  the  bluest  sea.  And 
such  a  lovely  and  loveable  hostess!  So  truly  '  the  latter  end  of  that 
■woman  was  better  than  the  beginning.'  I  am  glad  to  find  the  in 
sane  horror  I  conceived  of  the  sea,  all  in  one  night  at  St.  Leonards, 
has  quite  passed  away.  I  love  it  again  as  I  had  always  done  till 
then;  and  rather  regret  that  no  sound  of  it  reaches  over  the  cliff. 

But  there  is  something  I  want  to  say  to  you,  more  interesting  to 
me  than  the  picturesque, — something  that  my  heart  is  set  on — about 
your  coming  to  see  London.  I  know  j^ou  would  make  no  diflfi- 
culty  for  my  sake,  if  for  nothing  else.  It  is  that  calmly  obstinate 
husband  of  yours,  who  carries  his  love  of  home  to  such  excess, 
that  is  the  '  lion  in  the  way '  for  my  imagination.  Yet,  if  he  knew 
how  much  good  I  expect  to  get  of  having  you  in  London  with  me, 
and  what  efforts  I  will  make  to  repay  him  f  ~>r  b's  efforts,  he,  who 
is  so  kind,  so  obliging  to  the  poorest  old  women  of  the  countiy- 
side,  will  surely  not  resist  my  entreaties.  You  are  to  understand 
that,  besides  the  pleasure  of  the  thing  to  me,  your  coming  at  the 
time  I  ask  would  be  doing  me  a  real  service;  Mr.  C.  is  going  on  his 
travels  shortly  after  our  return  to  London  from  this  place — some 
two  or  three  weeks  hence,  if  all  goes  right  here,  and  I  am  to  be 
left  alone  at  Chelsea.  Accompaujnng  him  would  not  suit  me  at 
all;  indeed,  several  of  the  houses  he  is  going  to  could  not  receive 
lis  both  at  a  time,  as  we  need  two  bedrooms.  And  Hien  I  should 
prefer  doing  mj'  outing  (as  the  Londoners  call  it)  in  autumn.  So  I 
shall  be  alone,  needing  company;  and  of  all  companj^  I  sliould  like 
best  the  Doctor's  and  yours.  Then,  when  he  is  away,  I  have 
plenty  of  house-room,  which  is  not  the  case  when  he  is  at  home, 
seeing  that  he  occupies  two  floors  of  the  liouse  'all  to  himself!* 
And  I  have  ray  time  all  to  myself  to  show  you  about  London,  and 
my  carriage  to  take  you  wherever  you  liked.  Oh,  my  dear,  it 
would  be  so  nice!  I  have  heard  you  say  the  Doctor  could  leave 
the  bank  '  for  a  fortnight  whenever  he  liked.  "Well!  if  lie  could 
not  stay  longer  than  a  fortnight,  he  might  bring  you  up;  and  see 
and  do  all  that  could  be  seen  and  done  in  one  fortnight,  and  then 
leave  you  for  a  good  while  longer.  You  would  liave  no  difficulty 
in  going  back  along  the  road  you  had  come;  or  I  might  find  some- 

■  Dr.  Russell's  special  employment  for  years  back  was  superintendence  of  a 
country  bank;  but  his  gratis  practice  of  medicine,  and  of  every  helpful  thing 
in  that  region,  continued  and  continues  (1809). 
IL— 11* 


250  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

one  going  that  direction  to  take  charge  of  you;  or,  if  you  were 
very  good,  and  stayed  long  enough,  I  -would  go  and  take  charge  of 
you  myself,  and  stay,  not  three  months  next  time  (!)  but  a  week  or 
two.  Oh,  my  darling,  it  would  make  me  so  glad!  Surely,  surely, 
you  and  the  Doctor  will  not  refuse  me.  Mr.  Carlyle  spoke  of 
writing  to  you  himself  to  press  your  stajing  with  us  till  he  re- 
turns. ' 

[Mt  signed]  J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  298. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  May  4, 1865. 

Darling, — When  I  came  in  to-day,  and  saw  a  letter  from  you  on 
the  table,  I  felt  myself  make  as  near  an  approximation  to  a  blush 
as  my  sallow  complexion  is  capable  of.  It  was  a  little  '  coal  of 
fire  '  heaped  on  my  head!  For  days  back  I  had  been  thinking  how 
neglectful  I  must  seem  to  you,  making  no  answer  to  that  kindest 
of  letters  and  of  invitations,  written,  too,  when  you  were  ailing, 
and  'looking  at  the  dark  of  things!'  You  had  still  managed  to 
look  at  the  bright  of  me,  since  you  could  believe  that  my  presence 
would  '  cheer  you '  instead  of  boring  you.  But  it  was  not  that  I 
was  really  not  caring  to  write,  nor  yet  that  I  was  giving  way  to 
physical  languor  (though  that  has  been  considerable).  It  was  that 
for  the  last  week  or  two  I  have  been  kept  in  a  whirl  of  things 
which  made  it  out  of  the  question  for  me  to  sit  down  quietly,  and 
make  up  my  mind  what  to  say. 

Mr.  C,  has  been  sitting  to  Woolner  for  his  bust;  and  it  seems  he 
'  is  as  difficult  to  catch  a  likeness  of  as  a  flash  of  lightning'  is;  so 
that  it  is  a  trying  business  for  both  sitter  and  sculptor.  I  have 
had  to  drive  up  to  "Wooluer's  every  two  or  three  days,  and  climb 
steep  endless  stairs  to  tell  what  faults  I  see.  And  in  connection 
with  this  bust,  there  has  been  such  a  sitting  to  photographers  as  never 
was  heard  of!  Woolner  wants  a  variety  of  photographs  to  work 
from,  and  the  photographer  wants  a  variety  to  sell!  and  Mr.  Car- 
lyle yields  to  their  mutual  entreaties.  And  then,  when  they  have 
had  their  will  of  him,  they  insist  on  doing  me  (for  my  name's 
sake).  And  Mr.  C.  insists  too,  thinking  always  the  new  one  may 
be  more  successful  than  former  ones;  so  that,  with  one  thing  and 
another,  I  have  been  worried  from  morning  till  night,  and  post- 

>  Alas  I  they  never  came. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  251 

poned  writing  till  I  should  have  got  leisure  to  think  what  was  to 
be  written.  But  I  must  not  put  off  any  longer,  since  you  are  get- 
ting uneasy  about  me. 

I  am  not  worse — indeed,  as  to  the  sickness  and  the  sleeplessness 
I  am  rather  better  in  both  respects— but  I  am  weak  and  languid, 
have  little  appetite,  and  am  getting  thinner.  The  best  thing  for 
me  would  be  to  get  away;  and  away  to  you,  rather  than  anywhere 
else!  I  know  that  well  enough  in  both  my  heart  and  my  head;  but 
one  cannot  do  just  what  one  likes  best,  and  even  what  is  best  for 
one.  I  could  not  go  with  Mr.  C.  for  several  reasons.  First,  hav- 
ing made  up  his  mind  to  go  off  '  at  his  own  sweet  will,'  and  having 
understood  that  I  was  to  stay  behind,  he  would  now  find  it  a  great 
incumbrance  to  take  me  with  him.     Second,  I  have  invited  Dr. 

B and  Bessy  to  pay  me  a  visit  so  soon  as  I  have  a  bedroom  for 

them;  and  they  have  promised  to  come  for  a  few  days.'  About  the 
end  of  May  is  the  doctor's  leisurest  time  at  St.  Leonards.  Third, 
Mr.  C.  wants  the  dining-room  papered,  and  fitted  up  with  book- 
cases from  the  study  at  the  top  of  tlie  house;  which  is  too  long  a 
climb  for  him  now  that  '  Frederick  '  is  done.  That  he  expects  me 
to  '  see  to '  in  his  absence.  And  how  long  it  will  take  me  to  '  see 
to  it '  will  depend  on  the  workmen. 

For  the  rest,  I  am  uncertain  how  long  he  will  be  away;  if 
'  months '  (as  he  speaks  of),  there  might  still  be  time  for  me,  after  I 
had  finished  my  business  here,  to  rush  off  to  Holm  Hill,  and  stay 
as  many  weeks  with  you  as  I  stayed  months  last  year.  I  should  so 
like  it!  And  Mr.  C.  wouldu't  object,  though  he  would  find  it  very 
absurd  to  be  taking  such  a  long  journey  so  soon  again.  I  put  out 
a  feeler  the  other  night;  Miss  Dempster  was  pressing  him  to  visit 
her  when  he  should  be  in  Forfarshire  (lie  is  going  to  Linlathen 
amongst  other  places),  and  I  said :  '  I  shall  perhaps  be  nearer  you 
than  he  will  be!  Lady  Airlie  was  pressing  me  so  hard  to-day  to 
come  to  Cortachy  Castle,  that  there  is  no  saying  but  I  will  follow 
him  north.'  'Indeed!'  he  said,  not  witli  a  frown,  but  a  smile. 
And  I  added,  '  If  he  stays  away  long  I  may  at  least  get  the  leugtli 
of  Dumfriesshire.'  But  till  I  get  my  workmen  out  of  the  house, 
and  know  sometliing  definite  of  Mr.  C.'s  plans,  I  can  determine 
nothing.  Will  you  let  me  leave  it  open?  I  like  so  ill  to  say  posi- 
tively, and  absolutely,  'No,  L cannot  come  this  year!'  Because, 
you  see,  having  a  character  for  standing  by  my  word  to  keep  up,  I 
could  not,  after  an  absolute  '  no '  said  now,  avail  myself  of  any 

1  They  never  came. 


652  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

facilities  for  going  to  you  wliicli  may  turn  up  later.     So  may  I 
leave  the  question  open? 

How  absurd  1  In  telling  you  on  the  otiier  sheet  how  I  was  bodily, 
I  quite  forgot  to  mention  my  most  serious  ailment  for  the  last  six 
weeks.  My  right  arm  has  gone  the  way  that  my  left  went  two 
years  ago,  gives  me  considerable  pain,  so  that  I  cannot  lie  upon  it, 
or  make  any  effort  (such  as  ringing  a  bell,  opening  a  window,  &c. 
&c.)  with  it;  and  if  anyone  shakes  my  hand  heartily,  I — shriek! 
Geraldine  Jewsbury  is  always  asking,  '  Have  you  written  to  Dr. 
Russell  yet  about  your  arm?'  But  what  could  anyone  do  before 
for  the  other  arm?  All  that  was  tried  was  useless  except  quinine; 
and  quinine  destroys  my  sleep.  I  must  just  hope  it  will  mend  of 
itself  as  the  other  did.  Your  ever-attached  friend, 

Jane  W.  Cakltle. 

LETTER  299. 

To-day  (August  9,  186C)  I  have  discovered  in  drawers  of  pedestal 
these  mournful  letters  of  my  darling  in  1865.  They  had  lain  torn 
in  my  writing-case,  till  their  covers  were  all  lost,  and  there  is  now 
no  correct  dating  of  them.  I  have  tried  to  save  the  sequence  and 
be  as  correct  as  I  could.  Here  are  the  cardinal  dates.  About  May 
20  I  went  to  Dumfries,  thence  to  the  Gill;  and  she,  here  at  home 
(courageous  little  soul!),  began  doing  this  room  (tjie  very  beauty  of 
which  now  pains  and  amazes  me). 

Beginning  of  May  her  right  arm  took  ill,  as  her  left  had  done  last 
year,  and  she  painfully  went  and  came  between  Streatham  and 
iiere  for  some  time  (perhaps  near  a  fortnight),  writing  with  her  left 
hand.  June  17,  slie  passed  me  (little  guessing  of  her  in  the  rail) 
and  went  to  Holm  Hill;  very  ill  then  too,  still  left  hand;  and 
tlience  in  July  to  Nithbank,  and  after  about  teu  or  twelve  days 
(middle  or  farther  of  July)  went  home  somewhat  better;  got  her 
roomdone,  recovered  her  right  hand,  and  went  to  Folkestone  to 
Miss  Bromley's  for  a  few  days  (which  proved  her  last  visit,  little  as 
I  then  anticipated).  Her  beautiful  figure  and  presence  welcoming 
me  home  (end  of  August)  will  never  leave  my  memory  more. 
— T.  C. 

T.  OarlyU,  Esq.,  The  Hill,  Dumfries. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Wednesday,  May  24, 1865. 

I  wonder  if  you  will  get  this  letter  to-morrow,  should  it  be  put 
in  the  pillar  tonight?  Dear!  dear!  should  no  word  reach  you  till 
Friday  morning,  you  will  be  '  vaixed,'  and  perhaps  frightened  be- 
sides. 

The  figure  I  cut  on  Monday  morning  was  not  encouraging. 
When  I  had  cried  a  very  little  at  being  left  by  myself,  I  lay  on  the 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  253 

sofa  till  mid-day,  not  sleeping,  but  considering  what  to  do  for  the 
best  with  this  arm,  which  had  got  to  a  pitch,  and  was  reducing  me 
to  the  state  of  last  year  in  point  of  sleep.     And  the  result  of  my 

considerations  was,  first,   a   note  to   Dr.  B ,  urging   him  and 

Bessy  to  keep  their  promise  of  spending  a  couple  of  days  with  me 
as  soon  as  possible  ;  and  next,  in  the  meantime,  a  call  at  Quilter's 
to  order  the  old  quinine  pills  and  a  bottle  of  castor  oil.  If  I  am  to 
be  kept  awake  all  night  at  any  rate  by  the  pain,  I  may  as  well  have 
recourse  to  the  only  prescription  which  did  any  good  to  the  other 
arm — even  at  the  cost  of  sleep.  That  first  day  I  also  called  at  the 
carpenter's,  to  lever  himself,  for  he  '  had  great  things  to  do.'  Tlien 
on  to  luncheon  at  the  Gomms '.  Do  you  remember  I  was  engaged 
to  luncheon  there?  They  have  a  beautiful,  large,  old-fashioned, 
cool  house.  And  the  luncheon  was  a  sonnet  done  into  dainties.  I 
brought  away  Lord  Lothian's  book  on  America,  but  have  not  yet 
read  a  word  of  it,  nor  of  anything  else — not  even  of  Mrs.  Paulet's 
novel,  nor  my  own  '  Daily  Telegraph. '  On  my  return,  I  came  upon 
Geraldine  in  Cheyne  Row  ;  and  she  '  could  not  leave  me '  till  ten  at 
night,  I  '  looked  such  a  ghost.' 

On  Tuesday  I  had  to  take  Mrs.  Blunt  to  make  calls  at  Fulham  ; 

and  then  I    'did  the  civil  thing'  to  Mrs.  F .     F was  in, 

and  talked  much  of  your  'gentleness  and  tenderness  of  late,'  and 
the  '  much  greater  patience  you  had  in  speaking  of  everybody  and 
everything.'  And  I  thought  to  myself,  '  If  he  had  only  heard  you 
a  few  hours  after  that  walk  with  him,  in  which  you  had  made  such 
a  lamblike  impression! '  He  expressed  a  wish  to  read  Mrs.  Paulet'3 
novel,  and  I  have  sent  it  to  him.  A  very  curious,  clever,  '  exces- 
sively ridiculous,  and  perfectly  unnecessary '  book  is  Mrs.  Paulet's 
novel,  so  far  as  I  have  read  in  the  first  volume.  And  Mrs.  Paulet 
herself  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of,  for  I  have  seen  her.  In  my 
saintly  forgiveness  and  beautiful  pity  I  left  a  card  for  her  yesterday; 
and  she  came  a  few  hours  after  ;  and  Geraldine,  too,  came  ;  and  I 
was  not  left  alone  till  half-past  ten,  when  it  was  too  late  to  write. 

This  morning  (I  don't  know  by  what  right)  I  expected  a  letter 
from  you,  which  did  not  come  till  the  afternoon.  And  positively 
I  was  almost  well  pleased  there  was  no  letter — to  answer,  for  I  had 
'  indulged  in  a  cup  '  of  castor  oil,  and  was — oh,  so  sick;  and  besides, 
that  matter  had  unexpectedly  taken  to  '  culminating  '  again.  Last 
night  there  had  come  from  Jessie  Hiddlestone  a  very  nice  letter, 
not  accepting  my  rejection  on  the  score  of  the  '  situation '  being 
'too  dull  for  her,'  but  assuring  me  that  she  would  not  '  be  the  least 


254  LETTERS  AKD  MEMORIALS  OP 

dull  and  discontented,'  and  'altogether'  throwing  a  quite  different 
and  rosier  colour  on  the  project.  I  will  inclose  the  letter,  and  you 
■will  read  it,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  I  was  right  in  being  moved 
thei-eby  to  engage  her  ;  for  that  is  what  I  have  done  this  forenoon, 
in  the  middle  of  my  sorrows  of  castor  oil  ! 

For  the  rest  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  get  better,  and  do  well 
there  for  a  time.  Perhaps  I  shall  take  flight  myself  if  my  terrible 
nights  continue  too  long  for  endurance  and  this  wearing  pain  lasts. 
It  is  pulling  me  down  sadly  ;  and  neuralgia  has  such  an  effect  on 
the  spirits. 

One  thing  I  have  to  say,  that  I  beg  you  will  give  ear  to.  I  have 
not  recovered  yet  the  shock  it  was  to  me  to  find,  after  six  months, 
all  those  weak,  wretched  letters  I  wrote  you  from  Holm  Hill  '  dad- 
ding  about '  in  the  dining-room  ;  and  should  you  use  my  letters  in 
that  way  again  I  shall  know  it  by  instinct,  and  not  write  to  you  at 
all  I    There  ! 

Please  return  Jessie  Hiddlestone's  letter. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carltle. 

LETTER  300. 

To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Hill,  Dumfries. 

5  Cheyne  Eow,  Chelsea:  Saturday,  May  27, 1865. 

I  think,  dear,  you  must  have  lost  a  day  this  week — must  have — 
stop  !  No  !  I  should  have  said— gained  a  day!  You  bid  me  'not 
bother  myself  writing  to-morrow,  but  send  a  word  on  Saturday.' 
And  the  to-morrow  is  Saturday.  This  day  on  which  I  am  not  to 
'  bother  myself  writing '  is  Saturday.  I  posted  a  letter  to  you  yes- 
terday at  the  right  time.  That  night  post  is  later  than  you  think. 
It  was  past  nine  when  Fanny  put  in  the  pillar  the  letter  you  re- 
ceived the  following  evening  at  eight. 

My  quinine  and  castor  oil  have  quite  failed  of  doing  the  good  to 
my  right  arm  which  they  formerly  did  to  my  left.  The  pain  gets 
more  severe  and  more  continuous  from  day  to  day.  Last  night  it 
kept  me  almost  entirely  awake.  I  often  wonder  that  I  am  able  to 
keep  on  foot  during  the  day,  and  take  my  three  hours'  drives,  and 
talk  to  the  people  who  come  to  relieve  my  loneliness,  with  that  arm 
always  in  pain,  as  if  a  dog  were  gnawing  and  tearing  at  it  !  But 
anything  rather  than  the  old  nervous  misery,  which  was  not  to  be 
called  pain  at  all  !  positive  natural  pain  I  can  bear  as  well  as  most 


JAKE  WELSH  CxiRLYLE.  255 

people.     But  I  wish  Dr.    B would  come  !     Perhaps   he  can 

deal  with  a  realit}-  like  this,  though  he  could  '  do  nothing  against 
hj'^sterical  mania  ! ' '  I  got  the  thing  he  mentioned,  Yeratrine 
liniment,  yesterday,  from  Quilter  ;  and  Geraldine  rubbed  it  in  for 
an  hour  last  niglit.     But,  as  I  said,  last  night  was  the  worst ! 

George  Cooke  said  you  desired  him  to  'come  often,  and  look 
after  me  ! '  '  Perfectly  unnecessary  ; '  I  mean  the  desiring  ! 
Couldn't  you  fetch  up  Noggs^  to  Dumfries  ?  So  much  walking  in 
such  hot  weather  must  be  tiring. 

All  good  be  with  you. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  301. 

T.  CarlyU,  Esq.,  Ihe  aUl. 

Thursday,  June  1, 1865. 

Dearest, — 'You  must  excuse  us  the  day.'  I  really  cannot  use 
my  hand  without  extreme  pain  ;  and  Geraldine  has  not  come  in  to 
write  for  me. 

I  am  just  going  off  to  Dr.  Quain  ;  since  Dr.  B is  postponed 

into  the  vague.  I  have  been  quite  wild  with  the  pain,  the  last  two 
niglits  and  days.  To-morrow  I  will  go  to  these  good  Macmillans 
whom  you  sneered  at  as  my  'distinguished  visitors.'  None  of  the 
more  '  distinguished '  have  come  to  me  w-ith  such  practical  help  and 
sympathy.  They  are  just  the  right  distance  off.  I  can  have  my 
carriage  come  and  take  me  home  any  day  to  look  after  the  house  ; 
and  for  a  drive  as  usual. 

I  think  you  will  be  better  at  the  Gill  than  the  Hill,  in  spite  of  the 
grand  house,  if  you  can  only  sleep  through  the  railway ;  and  do  not 
indulge  too  far  in  curds  and  cream  for  dinner. 

God  bless  you. 

Your  lamed 

Goody, 


>  His  phrase  to  me  one  day  at  St.  I^onards— In  that  desperat*  time. 
'  My  saucy  Uttle  Arab  (gift  of  Lady  Ashburton). 


256  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

LETTER  302. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  GiU. 

Streatham  Lane: '  Saturday,  June  3, 1865, 

Dearest, — You  are  so  good  about  writing  that  you  deserve  to  be 
goodly  done  by;  so  I  write  a  few  lines  to-day  'under  difficulties,' 
tliough  you  gave  me  an  excuse  for  putting  off,  in  saying  you  could 
not  bear  till  Tuesday.  But  I  must  study  brevity,  the  soul  of  wit, 
for  the  cost  of  physical  pain  at  which  I  write  is  something  you  can 
liardly  conceive! 

When  I  got  your  letter  telling  me  to  hold  my  hand,  it  was  too 
late !  I  had  set  my  heart  on  doing  one  more  stroke  of  work  (my 
sort  of  work),  fitting  up  one  more  room  before  I  died.'  It  was 
all  very  well  to  say  'give  the  room  a  good  cleaning.'  But  no 
amount  of  mere  cleaning  could  give  that  room  a  clean  look,  with 
that  oory,  clingy  paint  and  paper.  To  put  clean  paper  without 
fresh  paint  would  only  have  made  the  dirtiness  of  the  paint  more 
flagrant.  And  if  the  painting  was  not  done  whilst  you  were  away, 
when  was  there  a  chance  of  doing  it?  I  knew  I  couldn't  sleep  la 
wet  paint;  but  I  looked  to  finding  a  bed  somewhere:  and  the  offer 
of  one  here  came  most  ©pportunely. 

The  day  before  leaving  home  I  went  to  Dr.  Quain,  who  did  me 
at  least  the  good  of  being  extremely  kind,  and  eager  to  help  me. 
He  said  I  had  'much  fever;*  and  gave  me  a  prescription  for  that, 
and  two  other  prescriptions.  And  when  I  returned  from  here,  I 
was  to  tell  him,  and  be  would  'run  over.'  I  said  to  him  that  Dr. 
B had  declared  I  had  no  organic  disease,  but  only  a  strong  pre- 
disposition to  gout!  'Quite  right,'  he  said,  'that  is  the  fact.' 
'Then,'  I  asked,  'perhaps  this  affair  in  my  arm,  so  much  more 
painful  than  what  I  had  in  the  left  arm,  is  gout? '  '  I  have  not  the 
least  doubt  that  it  is!  ! '  was  his  answer.     Pleasant! 

Well!  I  came  here  about  five  yesterday;  and  the  good  simple 
people  welcomed  me  most  honestly;  and  Mr.  Macmillan  sang 
Scotch  songs,  which  would  have  charmed  you,  all  the  evening,  the 
governess  playing  an  accompaniment.  At  eleven  I  retired  to 
my  beautiful  bedroom,  the  largest,  prettiest,  freshest  bedroom  I 
ever  was  put  to  sleep  in !  And  then  they  left  me  to  the  society  of 
a  watch-dog,  chained  under  my  window!  !  !     It  barked  and  growled 

'  Mr.  Macmillan 's  house  (fine  old-fashioued  suburban  villa  there). 
'  Alas:  and  this  was  it:  often  have  I  remembered  that  word. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  257 

and  howled  in  the  maddest  manner  till  they  set  it  loose  at  seven  in 
the  morning.  Of  course  I  never  closed  my  eyes  for  one  minute  all 
the  night !  and  I  got  up  in  the  morning  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  woman ! 
How  to  get  away  without  hurting  feelings?  I  was  the  wretchedest 
woman  till  I  got  it  settled  softly,  that  when  the  carriage  comes  for 
me  to-day  to  take  me  home  for  an  inspection  of  the  work,  it  should 
not  bring  me  back,  but  leave  me  to  sleep  or  wake  in  my  own  quiet 
bed;  and  to  come  out  to-morrow  to  spend  the  day,  and  sleep  here 
or  there  after,  as  I  liked  best.  The  dog  to  be  '  removed  to  a  greater 
distance.'     So  address  to  Cheyne  Row. 

Dr.  Quain  said  I  must  go  as  soon  as  possible  to  Scotland,  '  as 
it  had  agreed  so  well  with  me  last  year.'  I  said  I  shuddered  at 
the  length  of  the  journey;  he  reminded  me  that  I  had  done  it 
with  impunity  last  year  when  I  was  weaker  than  now.  I  suppose 
it  will  come  to  that  before  long!  I  need  have  no  doubt  about 
my  welcome. 

Since  you  are  not  disturbed  by  that  railway  which  drove  me  mad, 
you  will  do  well  at  Mary's;  she  is  so  kind  and  unfussing.  But 
you  must  not  exceed  in  milk  diet,  &c. !    You  must  have  mutton! 

And  oh,  take  care  with  Noggs  on  these  hilly  roads!  Oh,  my 
dear,  I  am  not  up  to  more;  my  arm  is  just  as  if  a  dog  had  got  it 
in  its  teeth,  and  were  gnawing  at  it,  and  shaking  at  it  furiously. 

Love  to  Mary.  Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Carlyle. 


LETTER  303. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Oill. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Wednesday,  June  7,  1865. 
Dear  Mr.  Carlyle, — You  will  be  disappointed  to  see  my  hand- 
writing, instead  of  Jane's;  but  to-da}' it  is  not  a  matter  of  choice, 
but  of  necessity;  for  the  pain  and  swelling  in  her  hand  and  fingers 
make  them  entirely  helpless;  and  she  has  to  feed  herself  with  the 
left  hand.  She  has  just  come  in  from  Mrs.  Macmillan's;  and  has 
been  selecting  a  paper  for  tiie  dining-room.  She  incloses  the  three 
patterns,  whicli  we  all  think  the  prettiest  of  those  submitted  to  us; 
and  she  says,  Will  you  please  to  say  which  of  the  three  you  like  the 
best?  I  think  Jane  is  a  shade  better  than  when  she  went  last  Fri- 
day; but  still  to-day  she  is  very  poorly,  and  pulled  down  by  the 
pain,  which  seems  to  increase.  She  would  sleep  if  it  were  not  for 
that;  she  does  manage  to  sleep  a  little.     Everything,  she  says,  is 


258  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

most  cliarmingly  comfortable;  and  the  dog  has  been  reduced  to 
silence. 

My  great  hope  is  in  Scotland;  and  she  seems  to  look  forward  to 
going,  which  in  itself  is  a  good  thing.     Please  to  address  your  next 
letter  to  Streatham  Lane,  as  they  are  delayed  by  coming  here  first. 
I  am,  dear  Mr.  Carlyle, 

Yours  very  respectfully, 

GeRALDINE  E.    jEWSBtTRY. 


LETTER  304. 
In  pencil,  with  the  left  hand,  and  already  well  done.— T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  QUI. 

Streatham:  Monday,  June  12,  1865. 

Dearest,— I  will  write  before  returning  home.  There  will  be 
neither  peace  nor  time  there.  Thanks!  I  never  needed  more  to  be 
made  much  of.  I  must  tell  you  about  my  hand :  you  think  the 
swelling  more  important  than  it  is;  the  two  middle  fingers  were 
much  as  now  for  some  weeks  before  you  left,  but  with  the  thumb 
and  forefinger  I  could  still  do  much<  now  the  forefinger  is  as 
powerless  and  pained  as  the  other  two;  that  is  all  the  difference, 
but  a  conclusive  one,  for  one  can  do  nothing  with  only  a  thumb! 
I  could  sometimes  sit  down  and  cry.  Tlie  pain— the  chief  pain- 
that  which  wakes  me  from  my  sleep  is  in  the  shoulder  and  fore- 
arm. Even  hopeful  Dr.  Quain  does  not  tell  me  I  shall  soon  get 
back  my  hand,  only  tells  me  blandly  I  must  learn  to  write  with  my 
left;  and  it  was  he  who  told  me  to  take  a  black-lead  pencil. 
I  went  to  him  on  Friday  by  appointment  when  I  had  finished  the 
antifebrile  powders.  I  think  they  have  quieted  me.  He  gave  me 
a  bumper  of  champagne;  was  kind  as  kind  could  be;  desired  me  to 

try  the  quinine  once  more ;  said  Dr.  B 's  prescription  was  an 

'  admirable  suggestion,  and  well  worth  my  trying,  but,  as  it  would 
cause  me  a  good  deal  of  pain  and  feverishness,  I  had  better  wait 
till  after  my  journey  to  Scotland.'  He  does  me  real  good  by  his 
kindness. 

My  visit  here  has  been  a  great  success,  so  far  as  depended  on  my 
host  and  hostess;  and  I  am  certainly  better  in  my  general  health  for 
all  the  nourishing  things  they  have  put  into  me  by  day  and  by 
night.  It  is  a  place  you  might  fly  to  in  a  bilious  crifljs.  Quiet  aa 
heaven,  when  the  dog  is  in  the  wash-house.  -^ 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  2S9 

Bellona  (my  mare)  has  given  me  a  fine  fright.  You  would  never 
believe  she  was  not  safe  to  be  left.  It  has  been  the  nearest  miss  of 
herself  and  the  carriage  being  all  smashed  to  pieces!  She  has 
escaped  miraculously  without  scratch.  The  carriage  has  not  been 
so  fortunate.  I  am  not  up  to  writing  the  narrative  to-day. 
Love  to  my  dear  kind  Mary. 

Your  loving  but  unfortunate 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  305. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Tlie  Gill. 

Railway  Hotel,  Carlisle:  Saturday,  June  17, 1865. 

Here  I  am!  as  well  as  could  be  expected,  after  travelling  all  night, 
choked  in  dust — an  unprotected  female  with  one  arm!  It  is  no 
sudden  thought  striking  me!  My  mind  has  been  made  up 
to  '  try  a  change, '  ever  since  my  last  interview  with  Dr.  Quain, 
and  to  try  it  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  But  I  would  not  tell 
you  I  was  coming;  because  it  was  important  that  I  should  travel 
by  night;  and  for  you  to  meet  me  at  Carlisle  would  have  necessita- 
ted your  sleeping  there  (an  impossibility!)  or  else  your  starting  from 
the  Gill  at  an  unearthly  hour.  Kindest  not  to  place  you  in  the  di- 
lemma! 

Up  to  the  last  moment,  I  schemed  about  taking  the  Gill  on  my 
road  to  Dumfries  and  appointing  you  to  meet  me.  But  I  was  sure 
to  be  awfully  tired,  just  every  atom  of  strength  needed  to  carry  me 
on  to  Thornhill  without  increasing  my  fatigues  by  the  smallest  de- 
mand or  by  any  avoidable  'emotion  of  the  mind.'  To  stay  here 
a  couple  of  hours,  and  have  breakfast  and  rest;  and  then  on  past 
Cummertrees,  with  shut  eyes,  to  the  place  of  my  destination, 
seemed  the  wisest  course.  To  this,  since  my  arrival  here,  has  been 
added  the  sublime  idea  to  throw  out  a  note  for  j'ou,  and  a  sixpence 
at  Cummertrees;  as  it  had  suddenly  flashed  on  me  that  no  letter 
from  me  could  reach  you  by  post  till  Tuesday.  So  soon  as  I  am 
rested,  I  will  make  an  appointment  with  you  to  meet  at  Dumfries,  if 
you  would  rather  not  come  on  to  Holm  Hill. 

To  think  that  I  sliall  fly  past  Avithin  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  you 
presently;  and  you  will  have  no  perception  of  my  nearnessl 

Yours  ever. 

A  kiss  to  Mary. 

J.  w.  c. 


260  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 


LETTER  306 

The  '  Saturday  '  in  this  letter  must  refer  to  the  visit  she  proposed 
making  us  at  the  Gill.  Jamie  of  Scotsbrig  particularly  invited. 
Mournfully  I  ever  recollect  the  day;  briglit  and  sunny;  Jamie 
punctually  there;  I  confidently  expecting.  Fool!  I  had  not  the 
least  conception  of  her  utter  feebleness,  and  that  she  was  never  to 
visit 'The  Gill'  more!  Train  passed.  I  hung  about  impatiently 
till  the  gig  should  return  from  Cummertrees  ytation — with  her,  I 
never  doubted.  It  came  with  John  instead,  to  say  she  had  been 
obliged  to  stop  at  Dumfries,  and  I  must  come  thither  by  the  next 
train:  'be  exact;  there  will  be  a  two  and  a  half  or  three  hours  for 
us  there  still.'  I  went  (with  John,  Jamie  regretfully  turning 
home).  She  was  so  pleasant,  beautifully  cheerful,  and  quiet,  I  en- 
joyed my  three  hours  without  misgiving.  Fool!  fool!— and  yet 
there  was  a  strange  infinitude  of  sorrow  and  pity  encircling  all 
things  and  persons  for  me— her  beyond  all  others,  though  being 
really  myself  as  if  crushed  flat  after  such  a  '  flight '  of  twelve  or 
thirteen  years,  latterly  on  the  Owen  '  comatose '  terms.  I  was  stu- 
pefied into  blindness!  The  time  till  her  train  should  come  was 
beautiful  to  me  and  everybody.  Cab  came  for  her,  I  escorting 
(the  rest  walked,  for  it  was  hardly  five  minutes  off).  Train  was 
considerably  too  late.  An  old  and  good  dumb  'Mr.  Turner,' 
whom  she  recognised  and  rembered  kindly  after  forty  years,  was 
brought  forward  at  her  desire  by  brotlier  John.  Her  talk  with 
Turner  (by  slate  and  pencil,  I  w^riting  for  her) — ah  me!  ah  me! 
It  was  on  the  platform-seat,  under  an  awning;  she  sat  by  me;  the 
great,  red,  sinking  sun  flooding  everything:  day's  last  radiance, 
night's  first  silence.  Grand,  dumb,  and  unspeakable  is  that  scene 
now  to  me.  I  sat  by  her  in  the  railway  carriage  (empty  otherwise) 
til  the  train  gave  its  third  signal,  and  she  vanished  from  my  eyes. 
— T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Gill. 

Holm  Hill:  Wednesday,  June  28,  1865. 

I  cannot  make  it  Friday,  dear— at  least,  could  not  without  rude- 
ness to  a  nice  women  who  has  always  been  kind  to  me.  I  am  en- 
gaged to  dine  with  my  sort  of  cousin,  Mrs.  Hunter,  on  Friday,  hav- 
ing been  invited  for  Thursday,  and  asked  to  have  the  day  changed 
to  Friday.  And  last  year,  when  she  had  got  up  a  dinner  for  me, 
I  had  to  send  an  excuse  at  the  last  hour,  being  too  ill.  To-morrow 
you  will  now  be  hardly  expecting  me.  So  let  us  say  Saturday;  if 
that  does  not  suit  there  will  be  time  to  tell  me.  '  The  wine  I 
drink?'  Oh,  my!  That  it  should  be  come  to  that.  But  surely 
you  ought  not  to  be  without  wine,  setting  aside  me. 

Don't  be  bothering,  making  plans  embracing  me.  The  chief 
good  of  a  holiday  for  a  man  is  just  that  he  should  have  shaken  ofE 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  361 

liame  cares — the  foremost  of  these  a  wife.  Consider  that,  for  the 
present  summer,  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  me,  but  write  me 
nice  daily  letters,  and  pay  my  bills.  I  came  on  my  own  hook, 
and  so  I  will  continue,  and  so  I  will  go !  To  be  living  in  family  in 
some  country  place  is  just  like  no  holiday  at  all,  but  like  living  at 
home  '  under  difEculties,'  Shall  I  ever  forget  '  the  cares  of  meat ' 
at  Auchtertool  House  ? '  ever  forget  the  maggots  generated  by  the 
sua  in  loins  of  mutton  on  the  road  from  Kirkcaldy,  and  all  the 
other  squalid  miseries  of  that  time,  for  which  I,  as  housewife,  was 
held  responsible,  and  had  my  heart  broken  twenty  times  a  day? 
Well,  m}^  worried  arm  is  pain  enough  for  the  present,  without  re- 
calling past  griefs.  To-day,  however,  I  feel  rather  easier.  And  I 
had  more  and  better  sleep  last  uight.  Thanks  to  exhaustion !  for 
the  preceding  night  I  had  not  closed  my  eyes  at  all. 

It  is  such  a  pity  but  I  could  have  a  little  bodily  ease.  For  I  was 
never  more  disposed  to  be  content  with  '  things  in  general.'  I  could 
really  feel  'happy,'  if  it  were  not  for  my  arm,  and  the  perfectly 
horrid  nights  it  causes  me. 

Jessie  Hiddlestoue  is  in  Thornhill,  awaiting  my  orders — the  most 
promising-looking  servant  we  have  had  since  her  mother.  I  am 
greatly  pleased  with  her,  and  so  glad  I  had  faith  in  breed  and  en- 
gaged her.  Many  were  eager  to  have  her.  But  she  was  'prood 
to  go  back  to  the  family.'     '  The  family  ? '    Where  are  they  ? 

My  dear,  your  observation  of  handwritings  is  perfectly  amazing. 
You  take  Geraldine's  writing  for  mine,  Mr.  Macmillan's  for  Geral- 
dine's.  And  now  I  send  you  a  charming,  witty,  grateful  little  let- 
ter of  Madame  Venturi's,  with  vignette  "  of  Venturi  sawing;  and 
you  seem  to  have  taken  it  for  Mrs.  Paulet's.  You  could  not  possi- 
bly have  read  the  letter,  or  you  could  not  have  made  such  a  mistake; 
so  I  advise  you  to  read  it  now,  with  a  key:  '  The  Gorilla  '  means 
George  Cooke,  '  M  '  stands  for  Mazzini,  the  sawyer  Venturi. 

Since  you  wish  to  know,  I  have  gone  back  to  sherry.  And  now 
good-bye  till  Saturday,  unless  I  hear  to  the  contrary.  My  left  hand 
had  taken  the  cramp,  so  this  is  the  writing  of  the  housemaid,  who 
takes  the  opportunity  to  assure  you  that  she  means  to  be  a  very 
good  girl,  and  try  to  please  you,  for  the  sake  of  her  mother,  who 
liked  you  so  well.  J.  Carlyle. 

[Madame  Venturi  had  been  Miss  Ashnrst,  of  a  well-known  Lon- 
don parentage.     She  had  (and  has)  line  faculties,  a  decidedly  artis- 

» In  1859:  '  Cares  of  bread.'— Mazzini's  phrase. 
*  Maid's  writing  begins. 


263  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

tic  turn,  which  led  her  much  to  Italy,  &c.  Venturi  was  a  Tyrolese 
Venetiau  (ex-Austrian  military  cadet,  and  also  Garibaldist  to  the 
bone,  consequently  in  a  bad  Italian  position),  who  had  fallen  in 
love  at  first  sight,  »&c.,  &c. ;  and  was  now  fitting  up  a  modest  Eng- 
lish house  for  wife  and  self.  Within  a  year  he  died  tragically — as 
will  be  seen.— T.  C] 

LETTER  307. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Gill,  Annan. 

Nith  Bank,  Thornhill :  Tuesday. 

Dearest, — A  regular  wet  day.  No  drive  possible.  Well,  the 
image  of  driving  you  have  just  set  before  my  imagination — you 
driving  me  with  Noggs  in  London — is  quite  enough  for  one  day.  It 
melts  the  marrow  in  my  bones!  Nor  is  there  much  relief  in  turning 
to  that  other  picture — little  Mary  flying  through  the  air  in  one  of 
his  '  explosions  '  and  breaking  lier  skull!  If  you  were  to  put  an  ad- 
vertisement in  the  newspapers  that  the  horse  of  Thomas  Caryle  was 
for  sale,  there  would  be  competition  for  the  possession  of  it. 

The  housemaid,  while  combing  my  hair  this  morning,  fell  to  tell- 
ing me  of  'ever  so  many  young  drapers,  an'  the  like,'  that  of  her 
knowledge  had  '  run  frae  Thornhill  to  the  station  to  get  a  bare  look 
o'  Mr.  Carlyle !  And  when  Mr.  Morrison '  (the  minister  of  Durris- 
deer)  '  cam'  to  his  dinner  yesterday,  the  first  word  oot  o'  his  heed, 
on  the  very  door-steps,  was:  "Is  Mrs.  Carlyle  still  here?"  He 
never  asket  for  Mrs.  Ewart  or  the  ither  ladies,  but  only  for  j'^ou, 
mem!'  I  endeavoured  to  inform  her  mind  by  telling  her,  'Yes; 
people  liked  to  see  any  lady  much  spoken  of,  whether  for  good  or 
ill.  If  Dr.  Pritchard '  had  been  at  the  station,  all  Thornhill  together 
would  have  run  to  see  him.'  '  Oddsake!  '  said  the  girl,  '  I  daresay 
they  would;  I  daresay  ye're  richt;  but  I  never  thocht  o'  that 
afore. ' 

Geraldine  writes  that  never  was  such  '  emotion '  excited  by  a 
speech  as  by  this  of  Mill's.  '  Public  Opinion  '  came  addressed  to 
you  at  Nith  Bank  in  Mrs.  Warren's  '■'  hand.  How  she  came  to  know 
the  name  Nith  Bank  I  am  puzzled  to  know. 

I  took  the  quinine  and  iron  yesterday  twice,  and  slept  rather 
sounder  than  otherwise.  But  I  had  a  badish  headache  all  morning. 
Nevertheless  I  took  another  dose  before  breakfast,  as  Dr.  Russell 
had  ordered,  and  the  headache  is  wearing  off. 

I  adhere  to  the  intention  of  Dumfries  for  Friday,  if  it  suit  you 
and  Mary.  Aflfectionately, 

Jane. 

'  Glasgow  prisoner  in  those  weeks.  '  Servant  here. 


JANE  WELSH  CAKLYLE.  263 


LETTER  308. 

Monday,  July  24. — Early  in  the  forenoon  I  was  waiting  at  Dum- 
fries for  her  train  Loudonward;  got  into  her  carriage  (empty  otiier- 
Avise),  and  sate  tallying  and  encouraging  as  I  could  to  Annan  (whicli 
wouid  hardly  be  an  hour).  Servant  Jessie  was  in  the  same  train; 
also  Jamie  Aitken,  junior,  for  Liverpool.  I  felt  in  secret  extremely 
miserable;  agitated  she,  no  doubt,  and  even  terrified,  but  resolute 
— and  the  lid  tshut  down.  I  little  thought  it  would  be  her  last  rail- 
way, journey. — T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq. 
5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thui-sday,  Jvily  27, 1865. 

All  goes  well  still,  dearest,  and  this  time  nothing  serious  is  man- 
quing.  The  second  night,  as  I  expected,  I  slept  '  beautiful.'  Three 
hours  without  a  break,  to  begin  with.  When  I  woke  from  that,  I 
not  only  didn't  know  where  I  was,  but  didn't  know  who  I  was!  As 
I  got  out  of  bed  (by  force  of  habit)  to  look  at  my  watch,  I  was  say- 
ing to  myself,  '  It  can't  be  me  that  has  made  this  fine  sleep.  It  must 
be  somebody  else.'  It  was  a  full  minute,  I  am  sure,  before  I  could 
satisfy  myself  that  I  hadn't  been  changed  into  somebody  else. 
Then  I  slept  piecemeal  till  seven  o'clock,  when  I  was  startled  erect 
by  what  seemed  the  house  falling.  Jessie  came  at  my  call,  looking 
very  guilty,  and  explained  that  it  was  she,  who  had  been  coming 
downstairs  very  softly,  for  fear  of  waking  me,  and,  having  new 
shoes  on,  had  '  slid  and  sossed  down  on  her  back,' just  opposite  my 
bed-head.  Luckily  she  was  none  the  worse  for  the  fall.  A  greater 
contrast  than  that  j'oung  woman  is  to  Fanny  cannot  be  figured.  So 
quick,  so  willing,  so  intelligent;  never  needs  to  be  told  a  thing 
twice;  and  so  warmly  human!  My  only  fear  about  her  is  that  she 
will  be  married-up  away  from  me.  Mrs.  Warren  calls  her  '  my 
dear,'  and  they  get  on  charmingly  together. 

The  person  who  addressed  the  newspaper  to  you  at  'Coming 
Trees'  was  Fanny,  who  had  called  to  ask  if  I  would  'see  a  lady  ' 
for  her,  and  Mrs.  Warren  being  busy  asked  her  to  address  the  news- 
paper. 

On  Tuesday  Bellona,  who  had  been  warned  a  week  before,  came 
round  at  one;  and  after  some  shopping  I  called  at  Grosvcnor 
Street,  and  found  Miss  Bromley  at  home — a  satisfaction  which  I 
owed  to  the  youngest  of  the  three  pugs,  '  Jocky,'  who  was  'suffer- 
ing from  the  heat.'  She  was  delighted  to  see  me;  most  anxious 
I  should  come  to  her  at  Folkestone;  and  told  me,  to  my  great  joy, 


264  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

that  Lady  A.  had  not  started  on  the  31st;  wasn't  going  till  Thurs- 
day (to-day);  was  staying  at  Bath  House,  but  gone  that  morning  to 
Bath  for  one  day.  I  left  a  card  and  message  at  Bath  House  on  the 
road  home.  Yesterday  (Wednesda^O  I  drove  to  Bath  House,  the 
first  thing  when  I  went  out  at  one,  and  found  the  lady  looking 
lovely  in  a  spruce  little  half-mourning  bonnet;  and  she  would,  'if 
it  was  within  the  bounds  of  possibility,'  come  to  me  in  the  evening 
'between  ten  and  eleven; '  and  I  went  in  her  carriage  with  her  (my 
own  following)  to  Norfolk  Street  (Mrs.  Anstruther's)  to  see  baby, 
who  is  going  with  her  mother  to  Germany  after  all.  I  left  her 
there,  and  got  into  my  own  carriage,  and  went  and  bought  my 
birthday  present  with  the  sovereign — at  least,  I  paid  out  fifteen 
shillings  of  it.  On  what?  My  dear,  the  thing  I  bought  was  most 
appropriate,  and  rather  touching.  I  drove  to  the  great  shop  in  Con- 
duit Street,  where  the  world  is  supplied  with  'trusses,'  'laced 
stockings,'  and  mechanical  appliances  for  every  species  of  humaq 
derangement,  and  bought  a  dainty  little  sling  for  my  arm.  The 
mere  ribbon  round  my  neck  hurt  my  neck,  and  drew  my  head 
down.  This  fastens  across  the  back,  and  is  altogether  a  superior 
contrivance.  I  don't  believe  in  Dr.  Russell's  prediction  any  more 
than  you  do.  At  all  rates,  there  was  no  call  on  him  to  state  so 
hopeless  a  view  of  the  question  when  I  was  not  asking  his  opinion 
at  all.  It  could  do  no  harm  to  leave  me  the  consolation  of  hope. 
But  I  will  hope  in  spile  of  him.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that  ever 
since  he  said  I  should  never  get  the  use  of  my  hand,  nor  get  rid  of 
the  pain  there,  that  a  spirit  of  protest  and  opposition  has  animated 
the  poor  hand,  and  set  it  on  trying  to  do  things  it  had  for  some 
time  ceased  from  doing. 

Lady  A.  did  come  last  night — came  at  half  after  eleven,  and 
stayed  till  near  one !  Mrs.  Anstruther  was  left  sitting  in  the  car- 
riage, and  sent  up  to  say  '  it  was  on  the  stroke  of  twelve ; '  and  then, 
with  Lady  A.'s  permission,  I  invited  her  up;  and  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  her  I  don't  think  Lady  A.  would  have  gone  till  daylight!  She 
said  in  going,  '  My  regards — my — what  shall  I  send  to  him? '  (you). 
'Oh,'  I  said,  '  send  him  a  kiss! '  '  That  is  just  what  I  should  like,' 
she  said;  'but  would  he  not  think  it  forward?'  'Oh,  dear,  not  at 
all!'  I  said.  So  you  are  to  consider  yourself  kissed.  I  am  going 
up  to  Bath  House  now.     She  goes  at  night. 

Lady  Stanley  writes  to  ask  how  I  am,  and  to  beg  that  you  will 
come  that  way. 

What  a  long  letter !    I  ought  to  have  said  that  all  this  did  not 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE,  265 

give  me  a  bad  night.  Of  course  I  did  not  sleep  as  on  the  preced- 
ing night,  but  better  than  I  ever  did  at  Holm  Hill ;  and  the  pain  in 
my  arm  is  really  less  since  I  came  home. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  309. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Sunday,  July  30, 1865. 

I  will  write  to-night,  dearest,  while  the  way  is  open  to  me. 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  busy  from  the  time  I  get  up  till  Bellona, 
comes  for  me;  and  after  driving  there  is  no  time,  as  I  take  the  three 
hours  at  least  every  day.  It  is  such  '  a  privilege '  (as  Maria's  mother 
would  say)  to  have  a  carriage  and  a  Belloua  'all  to  oneself,'  inde- 
pendent of  -all  agricultural  operations.  I  don't  feel  it  too  warm 
a  bit  when  I  haven't  to  walk  on  the  hot  pavement,  though  they  are 
celebrating  the  thermometer  at  85°  in  the  shade.  But  anyhow  Miss 
Bromley  is  irresistibly  pressing;  and  I  have  promised  to  go  to  her 
about  the  twelfth,  whether  my  work  here  is  done  or  not.  She  will 
write  to  you,  to  urge  your  joining  me,  which  yo\i  will  do — won't 
you? — if  I,  on  surveying  the  premises,  can  promise  you  a  tolerably 
quiet  bedroom.  Of  course  I  shall  take  Jessie,  as  I  can't  put  my 
clothes  off  and  on  yet  without  help.  1  think  of  staying  about  a 
fortnight. 

I  am  Sony  you  gave  up  the  sailing  and  Thurso.  Sailing  agrees 
with  you,  and  you  had  good  sleep  at  Thurso.  '  The  good,  the 
beautiful,  and  the  true'  came  last  evening,  to  inquire  how  I  was 
after  my  journey,  and  to  tell  me,  who  knew  nothing  and  cared  less, 
how  he  had  written  letters  of  introduction  for  Dr.  Carlyle,  and  sent 
them  to  the  captain  of  some  steamer,  &c.  «S;c.,  and  how  his  wife 
had  set  her  heart  on  having  a  lock  of  your  hair  and  mine  set  in  a 
brooch,  and  he  had  promised  her  to  try  and  complete  her  wishes. 
And  it  ended — for  happily  everything  does  end — in  his  beggiug  and 
receiving  the  last  pen  you  used,  to  be  kept  under  a  glass  case. 
I  have  seldom  seen  a  foolisher  hero-worshipper.  But  the  greatest 
testimony  to  your  fame  seems  to  me  to  be  the  fact  of  my  photograph 
— the  whole  three,  two  of  them  very  ugly  (Watkins's) — stuck  up  in 
Macmichael's  sliop-window.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  pre- 
posterous in  your  life?  And  what  imperlinonce  on  the  part  of  Wat- 
kins!  He  must  have  sent  my  three  along  with  your  nine  to  the 
IL— 13 


266  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

wholesale  man  in  Soho  Square,  without  leave  asked.  But  it  proves 
the  interest  or  curiosity  you  excite;  for  being  neither  a  'distin- 
guished authoress,' nor  'a  celebrated  murderess,' nor  an  actress, 
nor  a  '  Skittles  '  (the  four  classes  of  women  promoted  to  the  shop- 
windows),  it  can  only  be  as  Mrs.  Carlyle  that  they  offer  me  for  sale. 

I  continue  to  sleep  on  the  improved  principle,  and  my  arm  con- 
tinues less  painful,  and  my  hand,  if  not  more  capable,  is  at  least 
more  ventui'esome. 

I  saw  Dr.  Quain  on  Saturday,  and  he  '  approved  highly  of  my 
present  course  of  treatment— that  is,  taking  neither  quinine  nor 
anything  else.'  I  told  him  what  Dr.  Russell  had  said,  and  his  an- 
swer was,  '  How  could  he  know?  That  is  what  nobody  could  say 
but  God  Almighty.' 

I  drove  to  Streatham  Lane  to-day,  and  saw  the  Macmillans ;  also 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Craik.'  Mr.  Macmillan  is  greatly  delighted 
with  him  as  a  junior  partner.  They  did  not  look  at  all  ill-matched. 
His  physical  sufferings  have  made  up  in  looks  the  ton  years  of  dif- 
ference. He  has  got  an  excellent  imitation  leg,  and  walks  on  it 
much  better  than  American  James. 

God  keep  you.  Your  affectionate 

Jane. 

LETTER  310. 
Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Aug.  7, 1865. 
Dearest,— Just  a  line  to  say  that  all  goes  well  with  my  health.    I 
continue  to  sleep  better — almost  to  sleep  well;  and  the  pain  is 
greatly  gone  out  of  my  arm,  and  I  use  my  hand  a  little;  this  charm- 
ing penmanship  is  from  my  right  hand. 

But  I  have  no  time  for  elaborate  writing.  I  was  never  busier  in 
my  life ;  about  three  thousand  volumes  have  had  to  pass  through 
my  hands,  and  be  arranged  on  the  shelves  by  myself;  nobody  else 
could  help  me.  The  new  room  is  getting  flnislied,  and  will  strike 
Mr.  C.  dumb  with  admiration  when  he  comes. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  311. 

Brother  John  and  I,  as  I  now  recollect,  were  in  and  about  Edin- 
burgh, Stowe,  Newbattle  (I  solus  for  a  call);  then  Linlathen  both, 

1  Miss  Mulock  once,  now  a  current  authoress  of  John  Halifax,  &c.  &c. 


JAKE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  267 

for  some  days;  whence  to  Sterling  of  Keir  (dreary  rail  journey, 
dreary  all,  though  in  itself  beautiful  and  kind);  thence  to  Edin- 
burgh (John's  bad  lodging  there,  &c.),  after  which  back  to  Dum- 
friesshire— to  Scotsbrig,  1  suppose.  Before  this  1  had  been  three 
days  at  Keswick  with  my  valued  old  friend,  T.  Spedding;  walked 
to  Bassenthwaite  Ha's.  (Seen  five-and-forty  years  ago  and  not 
recogniisable !)  Nothing  could  exceed  my  private  weariness,  sad- 
ness, misery,  and  depression.  Little  thought  it  was,  within  few 
months,  to  be  all  sharpened  into  poignancy  and  tenderest  woe,  and 
remain  with  me  in  that  far  exceeding  if  somewhat  nobler  form. 
— T.  C, 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Friday,  Aug.  12,  1865. 

Dearest, — It  all  came  of  you  being  moving,  and  me  sitting  still! 
I  didn't  know  exactly  when  and  where  a  letter  would  find  you,  and 
was  occupied  enough  to  avail  myself  of  the  shabby  excuse  for 
spending  no  time  in  writing.  Besides,  the  time  is  always  much 
longer  for  the  person  on  his  travels  than  for  the  one  at  home.  And 
your  right  address  did  not  reach  me  in  time  for  that  day's  post.  It 
came  to  hand  at  tea-time,  as  did  yesterday's  newspaper.  So  I  could 
only  answer  at  night  to  be  ready  for  the  post  of  yesterday.  Today 
I  send  a  line  or  two,  remembering  that  Sunday  you  can  get  noth- 
ing. 

Jessie  and  I  are  alone  just  now,  Mrs.  Warren  having  petitioned 
for  '  her  holiday.'  No  age  exempts  people  here  from  the  appetite 
for  holidays.  She  left  on  Wednesday  afternoon,  and  does  not  re- 
turn till  Sunday,  in  time  to  see  me  off  on  Monday.  As  that  new 
journey  comes  near,  I  shudder  at  it  considerably.     '  Stava  bene  / ' 

If  you  cannot  be  at  the  trouble  to  go  out  to  Betty's,  do  send  her 
a  line,  telling  where  and  when  she  can  come  to  you.  She  will  read 
in  the  newspapers  that  you  are  in  Edinburgli,  and  break  her 
poor  old  heart  over  it  if  she  gets  no  sight  of  you.'  She  has  al- 
ready had  one  bad  disappointment  in  not  seeing  me  when  I  was  so 
near. 

We  had  a  great  thunderstorm  last  evening,  and  the  air  to-day  is 
delightfully  fresh.  I  had  poor  little  Madame  Reichenbach  at  tea 
with  me,  and  her  husband  came  late  to  take  her  home;  and  the 
thunder  burst,  and  the  rain  fell;  and  the  lamp  was  burning  dim; 
and  the  dingy  little  countess  from  time  to  time  made  little  moaning 
speeches  in  English — unintelligible,  'upon  my  honour!' — and 
Reichenbach,  as  usual,  sat  with  crossed  arms,  and  knitted  brows, 
silent  as  the  tombs!    And  to  let  them  walk  home  in  such  pouring 

1 1  did  go. 


268  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

wet  seemed  too  cruel;  and  they  had  no  shilling  to  take  a  cab;  and 
I  would  gladly  have  paid  a  cab  for  them,  but,  of  course,  dared  not! 
And,  '  altogether,  the  situation  was  rather  exquisite! ' ' 

And  now  I  must  conclude,  and  prepare  for  Bellona.  That  poor 
beast  behaves  quite  well  at  present.  Of  course,  old  Silvester  never 
quits  the  box.  I  couldn't  have  the  heart  to  complain  about  his 
having  grown  old. 

I  will  send  my  address — or  stop!  'Tuesday  next!' — perhaps 
better  send  it  now : 

"  Care  of  Miss  Davenport  Bromley, 

'4  Langhorne  Gardens,  West  Cliff,  Folkestone.' 
Yours  lovingly, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

LETTER  312. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  SeoUbrig. 

Folkestone:  Saturday,  Aug.  19, 1865. 

Dearest, — It  will  be  surest  to  direct  to  Scotsbrig;  one  might 
easily  fail  of  hitting  you  on  the  wing  at  Edinburgh!  But  I  wish 
you  could  liave  brought  j'ourself  to  go  for  a  few  days  to  the  Lothi- 
ans;'  their  patience  and  perseverance  in  asking  you  deserved  a 
visit!  And  it  is  rather  perverse,  this  sudden  baste  to  get  home 
while  I  am  not  there  to  receive  you!  Don't  you  think  it  is?  For 
your  own  sake,  however,  I  do  entreat  you  to  break  the  long  jour- 
ney by  either  stopping  at  Alderley,  or  making  out  that  visit  to 
Foxton.^  Alderley,  which  you  know,  and  are  sure  of  a  fine  quiet 
bedroom  at,  would  be  best.  It  is  such  a  pity  to  arrive  at  home  en- 
tirely fevered,  and  knocked  up  with  that  journey,  as  always  hap- 
pens; and  then  you  take  it  to  be  'London'  that  is  making  you  ill! 

Then,  if  you  stayed  a  few  days  at  Alderley,  I  could  stay  out  the 
fortnight  I  undertook  for  here,  and  be  home  in  time  to  give  you 
welcome.  I  should  go  home  on  Monday  week  (Monday,  28th)  in 
the  course  of  nature.  I  suppose  this  place  is  good  for  me;  I  have 
slept  so  much — more  than  in  any  other  week  for  the  last  three 
years!     But  I  don't  feel  stronger  for  all  this  sleep,  nor  more  able  to 

1  '  Pang  which  was  exquisite.'  Foolish  phrase  of  Godwin's  in  his  Life  of 
Mary  WoUstonecraft. 

^  To  Newbattle,  where  I  spent  a  day. 

'  Frederic,  my  old  German  fellow-tourist:  his  cottage  '  near  Rhayader '  w»s 
of  route  too  intricate  for  me. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  269 

eat,  or  to  walk.  One  day  that  I  tried  walking,  about  as  far  as 
from  Cheyne  Row  to  the  hospital,  I  had  to  come  home  ignomini- 
ously  in  a  donkey-cart.  But  the  drives  don't  tire  me,  especially 
since  Miss  Bromley  has  had  her  own  carriage  and  horses  sent  down. 
Nor  need  there  be  any  reflections  for  want  of  '  simmering  stagna- 
tion!' There  is  not  a  human  creature  to  speak  to  out  of  our  own 
house;  and  in  it  the  pugs  have  the  greatest  share  of  the  con  versa- 
tion  to  themselves! 

I  cannot  forgive  Thomas  Erskine  for  taking  up'and  keeping  up 

with  such  a  woman  as  that  Mrs. .     Letting  you  be  driven  out 

by  Mrs. ! 

I  am  so  glad  you  went  to  see  dear  Betty;  it  will  be  something 
good  for  her  to  think  of  for  a  year  to  come! 

Do  write  distinctly  the  when,  and  the  how,  of  your  home-com- 
ing. What  do  you  think?  I  have  exactly  two  sovereigns  in  the 
world !  enough  to  pay  the  servants  here,  and  my  railway  fare  home, 
and  no  more!  !  Yet  I  have  not  been  extravagant  that  I  am  aware 
of.  I  had  to  pay  Silvester  before  I  went  to  Scotland  sixteen  pounds 
eleven  shillings  and  four  pence;  and  to  ditto  after  my  return  five 
pounds  seventeen  shillings.  And  Freure '  couldn't  get  on  without 
'  something  towards  the  work;'  and  I  paid  him  ten  pounds. 

£  s.  d. 

16  11  4 

10  0  0 

5  17  0 


32      8    4 


making  up  in  all  one  half  of  my  house-money.  Then  your  being 
away  makes  no  difference  in  the  rent,  taxes,  servants'  wages,  keep, 
&c.  And  for  my  being  away  myself,  I  certainly  have  to  pay  to 
other  people's  servants  more  than  it  would  cost  me  for  individual 
'  living's  cares  ! ' 

I  had  indeed,  besides  the  house-money,  my  own  fifteen  pounds, 
of  which  the  two  sovereigns  above  mentioned  are  the  sad  remains. 
But,  when  these  pounds  came  to  hand,  I  owed  for  my  summer 
bonnet  and  cloak;  and  I  had  some  little  presents  to  buy  to  take 
with  me  to  Scotland,  besides  a  gown  for  myself.  The  only  part  of 
my  own  money  I  can  be  said  to  have  spent  needlessly  was  a  guinea 
and  a  half  for — you  would  never  guess  what!— for  a  miniature  of 


*  The  Chelsea  carpenter. 


370  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

you! !    Such  a  beauty!    Everyone  who  sees  it  screams  with  rap- 
ture over  it — even  Ruskin! 
But  my  hand  will  do  no  more. 

Miss  Bromley  bids  me  say,  '  that  f ourfooted  animal  sends  his  re- 
spects '  ('  and  put  that  in  inverted  commas,  please! ').  She  is  good 
as  possible  to  me. 

Yours  lovingly, 

Jane  CARLYiiE. 

LETTER  313. 

Mrs.  Bussell,  Holm  Hill. 

4  Langhome  Gardens,  Folkestone:  Aug.  23, 1865. 
I  am  going  to  make  an  attempt  at  putting  on  paper  the  letter  that 
has  been  in  my  head  for  you,  dear,  ever  since  I  came  to  this  place. 
I  had  even  begun  to  write  it  two  or  three  days  ago,  when  at  the 
first  words  my  conscience  gave  me  a  smart  box  on  the  ear,  remind- 
ing me  that  I  hadn't  written  one  word  to  Mrs.  Ewart  since  I  left 
her,  after  all  her  kindness  to  me,  whereas  to  you  I  had  written  once 
and  again ;  so  mj^  pen  formed,  quite  unexpectedly  for  myself,  the 
words  '  Dear  Mrs.  Ewart,'  instead  of  '  Dearest  Mary.'  To  be  sure 
there  have  been  leisure  hours  enough  since.  Life  here  is  made  up 
of  'leisure  hours';  but  just  the  less  one  does,  as  I  long  ago  ob- 
served, the  less  one  can  find  time  to  do.  I  get  up  at  nine,  and  it 
takes  me  a  whole  mortal  hour  to  dress,  without  assistance.  At  ten 
we  sit  down  to  breakfast,  and  talk  over  it  till  eleven.  Then  I  have 
to  write  my  letter  to  Mr.  Carlyle;  then  I  make  a  feeble  attempt  at 
walking  on  the  cliff  by  the  shore,  which  never  fails  to  weary  me 
dreadfully,  so  that  I  can  do  nothing  after,  till  the  first  dinner  (called 
luncheon),  which  comes  off  at  two  o'clock;  then  between  three  and 
four  we  go  out  for  a  drive  in  an  open  barouche,  with  a  pair  of 
swift  horses,  and  explore  the  country  for  three  or  four  hours.  On 
coming  home  we  have  a  cup  of  tea,  then  rest,  and  dress  for  the 
second  dinner  at  eight  (nominally,  but  in  reality  half-past  eight). 
At  eleven  we  go  to  bed,  ver}'^  sleepy  generally  with  so  much  open 
air.  There  is  not  a  soul  to  speak  to  from  without.  But  Miss 
Bromley  and  I  never  bore  one  another:  when  we  find  nothing  of 
mutual  interest  to  talk  about,  we  have  the  gift,  both  of  us,  of  being 
able  to  sit  silent  together  without  the  least  embarrassment.  She  is 
adorably  kind  to  me,  that  'fine  lady! '  and  in  such  an  unconscious 
way,  always  looking  and  talking  as  if  it  were  I  that  was  kind  to 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  271 

her,  and  she  the  one  benefited  by  our  intimacy.  And  then  she 
has  something  in  her  face,  and  movements,  and  ways,  that  always 
reminds  me  of  my  mother  at  lier  age. 

I  am  sorry  that  Mr.  Carlyle,  after  all  his  objections  to  my  return- 
ing to  London  in  August,  should  have  taken  it  in  his  head  to  return 
to  London  in  August  himself.  I  find  it  so  pleasant  here;  and  am 
sleeping  so  wonderfully,  that  I  feel  no  disposition  to  go  back  to  Chel- 
sea already ;  Miss  Bromley  having  taken  her  house  for  five  weeks, 
and  being  heartily  desirous  that  I  should  stay  and  keep  her  com- 
pany. But  a  demon  of  impatience  seems  to  have  taken  possession 
of  Mr.  C,  and  he  has  been  rushing  through  his  promised  visits  as  if 
the  furies  were  cliasing  him.  Ever3'thing  right,  seemingly, wherever 
he  went;  the  people  all  kindness  for  him;  the  bedrooms  quiet  and 
airy;  horses  and  carriages  at  his  command;  and,  behold,  it  was  im- 
possible to  persuade  him  to  stay  longer  than  three  days  with  Mr. 
Erskine,  of  Linlathen;  ditto  with  Stirling,  of  Keir;  and  just  three 
hours  (for  luncheon)  at  Newbattle  with  the  Lothians;  and  by  this 
time  he  is  back  at  Scotsbrig  (if  all  have  gone  right),  to  stay  '  one 
day  or  at  most  two,'  preparatory  for  starting  for  Chelsea.  It  is 
really  so  unreasonable,  this  sudden  haste — after  so  much  dawdling 
—that  I  do  not  feel  it  my  duty  to  rush  home  '  promiscuously  '  to 
receive  him.  I  promised  to  stay  here  a  fortnight  at  the  least,  and 
the  fortnight  does  not  complete  itself  till  Monday  next;  so  I  have 
written  to  him  that  I  will  be  home  on  Monday— not  sooner— and 
begging  him  to  break  the  journey,  and  amuse  himself  for  a  couple 
of  days  at  Aldcrley  Park,  and  then  he  would  find  me  at  home  to  re- 
ceive him;  since  he  won't  do  as  Miss  Bromley  and  I  wish — come 
here  for  a  little  sea-bathing  to  finish  off  with. 

It  really  is  miraculous  how  soundly  I  have  slept  here,  though  I 
take  two  glasses  of  champagne,  besides  Manzanilla,  every  day  at  the 
late  dinner.     It  couldn't  have  been  sound,  that  champagne  of  poor, 

kind  Mrs. 's,  or  it  wouldn't  have  so  disagreed  with  me.     Here 

it  always  does  me  good.  And  the  pain  is  entirely  gone  out  of  my 
arm;  I  can't  move  it  any  better  yet,  but  that  is  small  matter  in 
comparison.  I  can  do  many  things  with  my  hand:  write  (as  you 
see) — knit — I  have  knitted  m5^self  a  pair  of  garters — I  can  play  on 
the  piano  a  little,  and  do  a  few  stitches  with  a  very  coarse  needle. 

Kindest  love  to  the  Doctor. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Carltle. 


272  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

LETTER  314. 
To  Miss  Welsh,  Edinburgh. 

5  ChejTie  Row:  Monday,  Oct.  1865. 

My  dear  Elizabeth,— I  am  very  glad  indeed  of  the  photograph, 
and  grateful  to  you  for  having  had  it  done  at  last,  knowing  how- 
all  such  little  operations  bore  you.  It  it  very  satisfactory  as  a  por- 
trait too — very  like  and  a  pleasant  likeness — '  handsome  and  lady- 
like '  (the  epithets  that  used  to  be  bestowed  on  you  in  old  times). 
Photography  is  apt  to  be  cruel  on  women  out  of  their  teens ;  but 
this  one  is  neither  old-looking  nor  cross-looking.  So  thank  you 
again  with  all  my  heart. 

We  have  had  a  severe  time  of  it  with  heat  since  our  return  to 
London.  Plenty  of  people  found  it  ♦  delicious,'  but  Mr.  C.  and  I 
— and,  indeed,  the  whole  household,  not  excepting  the  cat — suffered 
in  our  stomachs,  and  even  more  in  our  tempers.  It  was  quite  curi- 
ous to  hear  the  cat  squabbling  with  her  cat  companions  in  the  gar- 
den— just  as  the  cook  and  housemaid  squabbled  in  the  kitchen,  or 
Mr  C.  and  I  in  the  'up  stairs;'  a  general  overflow  of  bile  produc- 
ing the  usual  results  of  irritability  and  disagreement.  Now  the 
weather  is  again  favourable  to  the  growth  of  the  domestic  virtues, 
and  also,  sad  to  say,  to  the  development  of  rheumatism. 

I  paid  a  visit  the  other  day,  which  interested  me,  to  '  Queen  Em- 
ma.' She  is  still  in  the  house  of  Lady  Franklin  (the  widow  of  that 
'  Sir  John '  that  everybody  used  to  sail  away  to  '  seek ').  When 
Lady  Franklin  made  a  journey  to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  amongst 
other  out-of-the-way  places,  she  was  received  with  great  kindness 
by  the  '  royal  family, '  and  is  now  repaying  it  by  having  '  the 
Queen'  and  her  retinue  to  live  with  her;  though  our  Queen 
has  placed  her  apartments  at  Clarges'  Hotel  at  the  Sandwich 
Island  Queen's  disposition.  We  (Geraldine  Jewsbury  and  I) 
were  taken  by  Lady  Franklin  into  the  garden  where  the 
Queen  was  sitting  writing,  and  '  much  scandalized  to  receive  us 
in  a  little  hat,  instead  of  her  widow's  cap,'  which  she  offered  to 
go  in  and  put  on.  She  is  a  charming  young  woman,  in  spite  of 
the  tinge  of  black— or  rather  green.  Large  black,  beautiful 
eyes,  a  lovely  smile,  great  intelligence,  both  of  face  and  man- 
ner, a  musical,  true  voice,  a  perfect  English  accent.  Lady 
Franklin  introduced  me  as  '  the  wife  of  Mr.  Carlyle,  a  celebrated 
author  of  our  country.'     'I  know  him,  I  have  read  all  about  him, 


JANE  WELSH  CAELYLE.  273 

and  read  things  he  has  written,'  answered  the  Queen  of  the  Sand- 
wich Islands!  In  fact,  the  young  woman  seemed  remarkably  in- 
formed on  '  things  in  general.'  The  funniest  part  of  the  interview, 
for  me,  was  to  hear  Geraldine  addressing  Queen  Emma  always  as 
'  Your  Majesty,'  in  a  tone  as  free  and  easy  as  one  would  have 
adopted  to  one's  cat. 

Do  you  remember  Joseph  Turner  who  was  deaf  and  dumb?  I 
saw  him  on  the  platform  at  Dumfries  and  spoke  to  him,  and  he  has 
written  to  me — such  a  nice  letter.  I  will  send  it  when  I  have 
answered  it.  I  cannot  conceive  how  he  should  have  known  my 
father,  he  was  too  young. 

I  hope  Ann  has  gone  or  is  going  to  Dumfriesshire.  It  always 
does  her  good,  that  trip;  and  many  people  are  glad  of  her  coming. 
I  saw  her  old  friend  Mrs.  Gilchrist  at  Thornhill.  How  changed 
from  the  time  she  helped  me  to  make  woollen  mattresses  at  Craig- 
enputtock!  The  history  she  gave  me  of  her  accideuts  was  most 
pitiful.  I  didn't  like  the  daughter's  looks  much ;  but  she  had  the 
room  as  clean  as  a  pin,  and  spoke  kindly  enough,  though  roughly, 
to  her  mother. 

Good-bye,  dear  Elizabeth! 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jake  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  315. 

To  Mrs.  Atistiri,  TJie  Gill,  Annan. 

5  ChejTie  Row:  Wednesday,  Oct.  11, 1865. 
My  dear  little  woman, — It  is  'a  black  and  a  burning  shame '  that 
I  should  not  have  told  you  before  now  that  the  butter  is  good,  very 
good !  And  Mr.  C.  eats  it  to  his  oat-cakes  in  preference  to  the  Ad- 
discombe  fresh  butter,  which  is  the  best  in  the  world.  The  girl — 
or  I  should  say  young  woman  (lier  age  being  thirty) — whom  I 
brought  from  Thornhill  is  an  uchuirable  hand  at  oat-cakes,  and  is 
fond  of  being  praised,  as  most  of  us  are  when  we  can  get  it!  so  is 
willing  to  do  the  cake-making  of  the  family,  though  it  isn't  '  in  her 
work.'  And  I  seldom  oat  loaf-bread  now,  having  taken  it  into  my 
head  that  the  oat-cakss  do  instead  of  rhul)arb  pills.  She  is  a  capital 
servant,  that  Jessie;  and  pleases  Mr.  Carlyle  supremely,  attending 
to  all  his  little  '  fykes  and  manceuvrcs'  (as  she  calls  it  in  her  private 
mind)  witli  a  zeal  and  punctuality  that  leaves  him  nothing  to  wish. 
But  to  me  she  leaves  a  good  deal  to  wish.  Not  in  her  work:  she  is 
II.— 12* 


274  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

clever  and  active,  and  has  an  excellent  memory ;  but,  as  a  woman, 
I  might  vpish  her  different  in  some  respects.  With  a  face  that  cap- 
tivates everyone  by  its  'brightness  and  sweetness,' she  is,  I  find, 
what  the  clergyman  at  Morton,  who  had  known  her  from  a  child, 
told  me  she  was,  and  I  would  not  believe  him  till  I  tried,  '  a — vixen. 
And  when  Mrs.  Russell  told  me  she  was—'  Oh,  well,  about  that,  I 
should  say  she  was  as  truthful  as  the  generality  of  servants  nowa- 
days ! '  even  that  mild  account  was  stretching  a  point  in  her  favour. 
But  as  long  as  Mr.  C.  finds  her  all  right,  the  rest  don't  signify.  He 
has  been  off  his  sleep  again,  listening  for  'railway  whistles,'  which 
have  been  just  audible — nothing  more — for  years  back ;  but  he  never 
discovered  them  till  his  experiences  at  Dumfries  made  him  morbidly 
sensitive  to  that  sound.  The  last  week  he  has  slept  better;  and  in 
other  respects  he  is  better,  I  think,  than  before  he  went  to  Scotland; 
can  walk  further,  and  Ipoks  stronger. 

For  me,  my  neuralgia  continues  in  abeyance — no  pain  in  my  arm, 
or  hand,  or  anj^where.  And  though  a  certain  stiffness  remains,  I 
can  do  myself,  without  help,  almost  everything  I  need  to  do,  and 
some  things  not  needed.  For  example,  I  made  myself  yesterday  a 
lovely  bonnet!  My  sleep  has  been  greatly  improved  ever  since  my 
return  from  Scotland;  for  the  bad  nights  I  have  had  lately  were 
not  my  own  fault,  but  produced  by  listening  to  Mr.  C.  jumping  up 
to  smoke,  to  thump  at  his  bed,  and  so  on.' 

God  bless  you  dear.     Kind  regards  to  them  all. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Cablylb. 

LETTER  316. 

Some  wretched  people  who  had  settled  next  door  had  brought 
poultry  and  other  base  disturbances ;  against  which,  for  my  sake, 
the  noble  soul  heroically  started  up  (not  to  be  forbidden),  and  with 
all  her  old  skill  and  energy  gained  victory,  complete  once  more. 
For  me — for  me !  and  it  was  her  last.  The  thought  is  cuttingly 
painful  while  I  live. 

The  omnibus  at  Charing  Cross.  Oh,  shocking  1  How  well  do  I 
remember  all  this,  and  how  easily  might  I  have  avoided  it! — T.  C 

To  Mrs.  Austin,  The  Grill,  Annan. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Wednesday,  Dec.  1865. 
Oh,  my  dear!    I  am  so  vexed  that  you  should  not  have  had  your 
kind  sending  acknowledged  sooner.     It  arrived  when  I  was  under 


'  Alas,  alas;  watchful  for  two!    How  sad,  sad  that  now  is  to  me.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  275 

a  cloud,  last  Saturday,  cnnflned  to  bed  iu  a  perfect  agouy  of  sick 
headache ! 

I  had  had  nothing  of  that  sort  for  many  years,  and  it  was  really 
strange  to  me,  the  thought,  how  many  such  days  I  had  passed  for- 
merly without  being  killed  by  Ihem!  But  I  am  sure  I  couldn't  live 
through  many  such  at  the  present  date.  The  headache  and  sick- 
ness lasted  only  one  daj'  and  night,  but  the  effects  of  it  have  not  yet 
passed.  I  am  as  weak  and  nervous  as  if  I  had  just  come  through  a 
course  of  mercury !  And  that  is  why  I  have  let  several  posts  pass 
without  returning  you  our  thanks;  but  expressing  them  meanwhile 
in  an  approving  consumption  of  the  eggs  and  fowls.  One  was 
boiled  on  Monday  (excellent!),  the  other  is  to  be  roasted  to-day, 
according  to  my  views  about  variety  of  food  being  requisite  to  the 
welfare  of  the  human  stomach — a  consideration  which  Mr.  C. 
makes  light  of,  but  exemplifies  in  his  own  person  very  convincingly 
the  truth  of. 

I  could  very  well  account  for  that  crisis  the  other  day;  several 
things  had  conspired  to  throw  me  on  my  back.  First,  my  black 
mare,  who  enjoys  tlie  most  perfect  health  generally,  got  her  foot 
hurt  by  a  runaway  cart,  and  has  had  to  remain  iu  the  stable  for 
more  than  a  week,  in  a  state  of  continual  poultices!  Not  choosing 
to  pay  for  another  horse,  I  agreed  to  go  for  exercise  in  an  omnibus 
with  Mr.  C. — the  first  time  I  had  entered  an  omnibus  since  the 
evening  I  had  ray  fall — the  beginning  of  all  my  woes!  I  felt  very 
nervous  at  the  notion,  but  I  was  to  go  to  the  end  of  the  line  and  sit 
still  while  the  horses  were  changed,  and  then  come  back  again,  so 
as  to  avoid  any  walking  or  hanging  about  in  the  streets.  But  Mr. 
C,  as  usual  dawdled  till  we  found  ourselves  too  late  for  going  the 
whole  way,  and  I  had  to  get  down  at  Charing  Cross  in  a  busy 
thoroughfare — and  Mr.  C.  had  to  run  after  omnibuses  to  stop  them 
— and  I  was  like  to  cry  with  nervousness  to  find  myself  left  alone 
in  an  open  street — and  couldn't  run  after  him  as  he  kept  calling  to 
me  to  do — couldn't  run  at  all!  and  was  besides  paralysed  at  the 
sight  of  carnages  so  near  me,  so  that  I  was  terribly  flurried,  and 
felt  quite  ill  when  1  had  to  go  out  to  dinner  with  Mr.  C.  the  same 
evening.  Then  I  am  sure  the  champagne  they  gave  us  was  bad — 
that  is,  poisonous;  and  for  two  nights  before,  I  had  had  next  to  no 
sleep,  owing  to  a  terrible  secret  on  my  mind.  One  morning,  when 
I  looked  out  of  my  dressing-room  window  to  sec  what  sort  of  day 
it  was,  imagine  the  spectacle  that  met  my  eyes:  a  rubbisliy  hen- 
hutch,  erected  over  night,  in  the  garden  next  to  ours — next!  think 


276  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

of  that ! — and  nine  large  hens  and  one  very  large  cock  sauntering 
under  our  windows !  !  !  I  should  have  fainted  where  I  stood  had  I 
been  in  the  habit  of  fainting;  but  that  I  never  was.  As  Mr.  C. 
said  nothing,  I  could  not  guess  whether  he  had  made  the  discovery 
or  not.  The  crowiug  which  occurred  several  times  during  the 
night,  as  well  as  abundantly  in  the  morning,  certainly  did  not  awake 
him,  his  mind  being,  at  present,  intent  on  '  railway  whistles.'  But 
when  he  should  have  once  opened  his  eyes  to  the  thing,  and  as  the 
days  should  lengthen,  the  crowing  would  increase.  Ah  !  my 
heaven,  what  then? — no  wonder  that  I  lay  awake  thinking  '  What 
then?'  I  have  not  time  to  give  a  detailed  account  of  all  that  fol- 
lowed. Enough  to  say  the  poultry  is  all  to  evacuate  the  premises 
at  Christmas,  and  meanwhile  the  cock  is  shut  up  in  a  dark  cellar 
from  darkening  till  after  our  breakfast.  And  Mr.  C.  clasped  me  in 
his  arms  and  called  me  his  '  guardian  angel ; '  and  all  I  have  to  pay 
for  this  restoration  of  peace  and  quietness  is  giving  a  lesson  three 
times  a  week,  in  syllables  of  two  letters,  to  a  small  Irish  boy! 
Rhyme  that  if  you  can ! 

Excuse  this  ill-written  letter.  I  am  not  quite  recovered  from  the 
crush  of  that  poultry  affair  on  my  mind,  although  the  secret  load  is 
removed. 

I  will  write  soon  when  more  up  to  writing.  This  is  merely 
thanks  and  a  kiss  for  the  fowls  and  eggs.  Oh,  if  one  never  saw  a 
fowl  but  like  these — dead ! 

Love  to  them  all.  Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Cablyle. 

Jessie,  the  Thornhill  girl,  is  going  on  quite  satisfactorily,  since  I 
ceased  treating  her  too  kindly — snubbing,  and  riding  with  a  curb- 
bridle,  is  what  she  needs.  All  her  former  mistresses  warned  me  of 
that,  but  I  wouldn't  believe  them,  the  girl  looked  so  sweet  and  af- 
fectionate— the  humbug!  Mercifully,  Mr.  C.  sees  no  fault  in  her. 
\_Bemainder,  a  small  fragment,  is  lost.'] 

LETTER  317. 

Nothing  nobler  was  ever  done  to  me  in  my  life  than  the  unseen 
nobleness  recorded  in  this  letter.  When  I  look  out  on  that  garden, 
all  so  trim  and  quiet  now  (old  rubbish  tenants  gone  forever),  ami 
think  what  she  looked  out  on,  and  resolved  to  do — oh,  these  are 
facts  that  go  beyond  words!  Praise  to  thee,  darling!  praise  in  my 
heart  at  least,  so  long  as  I  continue  to  exist. — T.  C. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  277 


Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Clieyne  Row:  Dec.  25, 1865. 
Dearest  Mary, — I  was  unwilling  to  leave  your  husband's  letter 
unanswered  for  a  single  day,  or  I  wouldn't  have  chosen  Friday 
morning  for  writing  to  him,  when  I  was  busy  packing  your  box, 
and  had  besides  to  write  a  business  letter  to  the  Haddington  lawyer,' 
and  to  give  a  lesson  in  syllables  of  two  letters  to  a  small  boy,^  all 
before  one  o'clock,  when  I  should  go  for  my  drive.  After  my  re- 
turn, between  four  and  five,  there  is  no  time  to  catch  the  general 
post,  which  closes  for  Chelsea  at  half-past  four.  So,  having  so 
much  to  do  in  haste,  I  could  only  do  it  all  badly. 

Then  you  may  be  perplexed  by  tlie  four  pieces  of  cork.  My  dear, 
Mr.  Carlyle  has  admirers  of  all  sorts  and  trades;  and  one  of  them, 
a  very  ardent  admirer,  is  by  trade  a  cork-cutter,  and  he  sent  me,  as 
a  tribute  of  admiration,  a  box  containing  some  dozens  of  bottle- 
corks,  large  and  small,  and  half-a-dozen  pairs  of  cork  soles,  to  put 
into  my  shoes,  when  shaped  with  a  sharp  knife.  It  is  not  by  many, 
or  any,  chances  that  I  have  to  wet  my  feet;  so  there  is  small  gen- 
erosity in  bestowing  two  pairs  on  you  or  the  Doctor. 

I  hope  you  read  that  tale  going  on  in  the  'Fortnightly '—'The 
Belton  Estate  '  (by  Anthony  Trollope).  It  is  charming,  like  all 
he  writes;  I  quite  weary  for  the  next  number,  for  the  sake  of  that 
one  thing;  the  rest  is  wonderfully  stupid. 

When  I  wrote  to  the  Doctor,  '  my  interior '  (as  Mr.  C.  would 
say)  was  in  wild  agitation,  not  severe  but  annoying,  and  reminding 
me  of  the  inflammatory  attack  I  had  last  winter.  Nevertheless,  I 
took  my  daily  three  hours'  drive,  and  some  tea  after,  and  put  on 
my  black  velvet  gown,  and  went  to  'Lady  William's'*  eight 
o'clock  dinner.  I  hadn't  dined  with  her  for  some  three  weeks,  so  I 
must  be  getting  better  when  I  could  muster  spirit  for  such  a  thing. 
IJoUed  up  in  fur,  and  both  windows  up,  and  warm  water  to  my 
feet,  I  caught  no  cold,  and  it  is  always  pleasant  there,  and  I  always 
sleep  well  after.  I  met  the  man  who  is  said  to  have  made  the 
Crimean  AVar,  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  and  found  him  a  most 
just-looking,  courteous,  agreeable,  white-headed,  old  gentleman. 


»  About  some  trifle  of  legacy  from  poor  '  Jackie  Welsli,'  I  think  {supra). 
*  Part  of  lier  task  with  those  new  neighbours,  and  their  noises  and  paltrl- 
nesses.    Good  Heaven  I 
s  Lady  WiUiam  Russell,  who  much  Uked  and  admired  her. 


278  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

When  I  told  you  I  had  been  off  my  sleep,  I  told  j'^ou — did  I  not? 
— that  I  had  been  worried  off  it.  Better  when  one  can  put  one's 
finger  on  the  cause  of  one's  sleeplessness.  The  cause  this  time,  or 
rather  the  causes,  were:  first,  a  bilious  fit  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Car- 
lyle,  who  was  for  some  days  '  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind ' — a  con- 
dition which  keeps  my  heart  jumping  into  my  mouth  when  it 
should  be  composing  itself  to  rest.  Then  it  happened  that  in  these 
nervous  days  I  had  Agnes  Veitch,  my  old  Haddington  playmate 
(Mrs.  Grahame)  coming  to  dinner,  and  seeing  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  find  her  dreadfully  in  his  way,  I  ordered  my  brougham 
at  eight  o'clock  to  take  her  home  to  St.  John's  Wood,  and  that  she 
mightn't  think  it  was  sending  her  off  too  early,  I  went  along  with 
her,  to  give  her  another  hour  of  my  company.  Prettily  imagined, 
you  will  allow.  Having  deposited  her  safely  at  her  own  door,  I 
was  on  my  way  back,  crossing  Oxford  Street,  when  I  saw  a  mad 
or  drunk  cart  bearing  down  upon  me  at  a  furious  rate,  and  swerv- 
ing from  side  to  side,  so  that  there  was  no  escapiug.  My  old 
coachman  is  a  most  cautious,  as  well  as  skilful  driver;  but  this  was 
too  much.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  crossed  my  armS  tight,  and  awaited 
the  collision.  Instead  of,  as  I  expected,  running  into  the  carriage, 
the  wild  thing  ran  into  the  black  mare,  threw  her  round  with  a  jerk 
that  broke  part  of  the  harness,  and  then  rushed  on.  Men  gathered 
round,  and  Silvester  descended  from  his  box,  to  knot  up  the  broken 
straps;  my  beautiful  Bellona  (so  named  for  her  imputed  warlike 
disposition)  standing  the  while  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  Then  we  went 
on  our  way  again,  thanking  God  it  was  no  worse.  But  it  was 
found,  on  reaching  the  stables,  that  poor  Bellona  had  got  her  foot 
badly  hurt.  The  mad  wheel  seemed  to  have  bruised  it  and  snip- 
ped out  a  piece  of  skin.  She  was  not  at  all  lame,  and  was  quite 
willing  to  go  out  with  me  next  day;  but  the  next  again,  her  leg  was 
much  swelled,  and  for  more  than  a  fortnight  she  had  to  be  attended 
by  the  veterinary  surgeon,  who  forbade  her  going  out,  and  said  if 
the  bruise  had  been  an  inch  nearer  the  hoof  she  would  have  been  a 
ruined  Bellona.  Also,  he  said,  '  a  more  sweet-natured  horse  he  had 
neved  handled ! '  After  much  poulticing,  the  inward  suppuration 
came  outward;  and  she  is  now  all  right,  being  of  an  admirable 
constitution,  this  one;  never,  even  through  the  poulticing  time, 
losing  her  excellent  appetite  and  excellent  spirits.  But  it  was 
worrying  to  not  know  when  she  could  be  taken  out,  and  mean- 
while to  be  putting  Mr.  C.  to  the  cost  of  a  livery-horse  as  well. 

But  the  grand  worry  of  all,  that  which  perfected  my  sleepless- 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE,  279 

ness,  was  an  importation  of  nine  hens,  and  a  magnificent  cock,  into 
the  adjoining  garden!  For  years  back  tliere  has  reigned  overall 
these  gardens  a  heavenly  quiet — thanks  to  my  heroic  exertions  in 
exterminating  nuisances  of  every  description.  But  I  no  longer  felt 
the  hope  or  the  energy  in  me  requisite  for  such  achievements. 
Figure  then  my  horror,  my  despair,  on  being  vraked  one  dark 
morning  with  the  crowing  of  a  cock,  that  seemed  to  issue  from 
under  my  bed!  I  leapt  up,  and  rushed  up  to  my  dressing-room 
window,  but  it  was  still  all  darkness.  I  lay  with  my  heart  in  my 
mouth,  listening  to  the  cock  crowing  hoarsely  from  time  to  time, 
and  listening  for  Mr.  C's  foot  stamping  frantically,  as  of  old,  on 
the  floor  above.  But,  strangely  enough,  he  gave  no  sign  of  having 
heard  his  enemy,  his  whole  attentions  having  been,  ever  since  his 
visit  to  Mrs.  Aitken,  morbidly  devoted  to — railway  whistles.  So 
soon  as  it  was  daylight  I  looked  out  again,  and  there  was  a  sight  to 
see — a  ragged,  Irish  looking  hen-house,  run  up  over  night,  and 
sauntering  to  and  fro  nine  goodly  hens,  and  a  stunning  cock!  I 
didn't  know  whether  Mr.  C.  remained  really  deaf  as  well  as  blind 
to  these  new  neighbours,  or  whether  he  was  only  magnanimously 
resolved  to  observe  silence  about  them ;  but  it  is  a  fact,  that  for  a 
whole  week  he  said  no  word  to  enlighten  me,  while  I  expected  and 
expected  the  crisis  which  would  surely  come,  and  shuddered  at 
every  cock-crow,  and  counted  the  number  of  times  he  crowed  in  a 
night — at  two!  at  three!  at  four!  at  five!  at  six!  at  seven!  Oh, 
terribly  at  seven ! 

For  a  whole  week  I  bore  my  hideous  secret  in  my  breast,  and 
slept  'none  to  speak  of.'  At  the  week's  end  I  fell  into  one  of  my 
old  sick  headaches.  I  used  always  to  find  a  sick  headache  had  a 
fine  effect  in  clearing  the  wits.  So,  even  this  time,  I  rose  from  a 
day's  agony  with  a  scheme  of  operation  in  my  head,  and  a  sense  of 
ability  to  'carry  it  out.'  It  would  be  too  long  to  go  into  details — 
enough  to  say  my  negotiations  with  'next  door'  ended  in  an  agree- 
ment that  the  cock  should  be  shut  up  in  the  cellar,  inside  the 
owner's  own  house,  from  three  in  the  afternoon  till  ton  in  the 
morning,  and,  in  return,  I  give  the  small  boy  of  the  house  a  lesson 
every  morning  in  his  'Reading  made  Easy,'  the  small  boy  being 
'too  excitable'  for  being  sent  to  school!  It  is  a  house  full  of 
mysteries — No.  6!  I  have  thoughts  of  writing  a  novel  about  it. 
Meanwhile,  Mr.  C.  declares  me  to  be  his  'guardian  angel.'  No 
sinecure,  I  can  toll  him.  So  I  might  fall  to  sleeping  again  if  I 
could.    But  I  couldn't  all  at  once.     Getting  back  to  even  that 


280  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

much  sleep  I  had  been  having  must  be  gradual,  like  the  building 
of  Rome. 

Jessie  is  going  on  quite  well  since  I  decided  to  take  the  upper 
hand  with  her,  and  keep  it  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Warren  likes  her 
any  better,  but  I  ask  no  questions.  Best  'let  sleeping  dogs  lie.' 
She  (Jessie)  is  much  more  attentive  to  me  since  I  showed  myself 
quite  indifferent  to  her  attentions,  and  particular  only  as  to  the 
performance  of  her  work.  She  is  even  kindly  and  sensitive  with 
me  occasionally.  But  she  can't  come  over  me  ever  again  with  that 
dodge.  She  let  me  see  too  clearly  into  her  hard,  vain  nature  that  I 
should  place  reliance  or  affection  on  her  again.  I  do  not  regret 
having  taken  her — not  at  all.  As  a  servant,  she  is  better  than  the 
average;  as  a  woman,  I  do  not  think  ill  of  her;  but  I  mistook  her 
entirely  at  the  tirst,  and  see  less  good  in  her  than  perhaps  there  is, 
because  I  began  by  seeing  far  more  good  in  her  than  she  had  the 
least  pretension  to.  At  my  age,  and  with  my  experience,  it  would 
have  well  beseemed  me  to  be  less  romantic.  I  have  paid  for  it  in 
the  disappointment  of  the  heartfelt  hopes  I  had  invested  in  my 
hereditary  housemaid. 

Good-bye,  dear! 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Caklyle. 

LETTER  318. 

Mrs.  Russell,  Holm  Hill,  Thornhill,  DumfriessMre. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Saturday,  Dec.  30, 1865. 

Just  a  line,  dearest,  to  inclose  the  poor  little  money-order.  I 
have  no  time  for  a  letter — indeed,  my  hurry  ia  indescribable,  for  I 
have  been  fit  for  nothing  this  week,  and  all  my  New  Year  writing 
is  choked  into  the  last  day  of  it. 

Wi'ap  up  five  shillings,  please,  and  address  it  to  John  Hiddle- 
stone,  and  give  it  or  transmit  it  to  JMargaret,  who  will  save  you  the 
trouble  of  seeking  out  himself.  And  you  remember  there  was  to 
be  five  shillings  to  that  unlucky  Mrs.  Gilchrist — into  her  own  hand. 
The  other  ten  shillings  please  give  where  you  see  it  most  needed. 

A  woman  who  had  had  something  from  me  through  you  (an  old 
post-woman,  Jessie  said)  came  to  Jessie,  when  she  was  coming 
away,  and  begged  her  to  tell  me  that  '  she  had  been  sometimes  at 
Templand,  and  had  once  taken  tea  with  Mrs.  Welsh  in  her  own 
parlour,  and  if  1  would  do  something  more  for  her,  that  being  the 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  281 

case ! '  Jessie  had  properly  told  her  that  it  was  no  business  of  hers 
to  interfere,  and  that  she  could  tell  myself.  No;  I  do  not  recognise 
the  claim.  Let  her  have  what  she  has  been  used  to  have,  and  no 
more.  She  ought  to  have  appealed  to  me  through  you,  not  through 
my  prospective  servant. 

My  sickness  and  my  sleeplessness  have  culminated  in  a  violent 
cold  or  influenza.  Blue  pill,  castor  oil,  morphia — I  have  not  been 
idle,  I  assure  you ;  and  now  the  evil  thing  is  blowing  over,  and  I 
expect  to  be  able  to  keep  my  engagement  to  dine  with  Dr.  Quaia 
on  the  3rd  of  January ! 

I  hope  you  got  my  long  letter — that  it  was  not  confiscated  for  the 
sake  of  the  buttons!  Will  you  tell  me  how  you  manage  to  get 
baskets  all  the  way  to  our  door  without  a  farthing  to  pay?  No- 
body else  can  manage  it.  Even  when  the  carriage  is  paid,  there  is 
still  porterage  from  the  station  to  the  place  of  delivery,  which  can- 
not be  prepaid — sixpence,  or  eightpeuce,  or  a  shilling,  according  to 
the  bulk.  I  really  want  to  understand.  Had  you  any  porterage, 
from  the  station  to  Holm  Hill,  to  pay  for  my  box?  A  good  New 
Year  to  the  doctor.  I  would  be  his  '  first  foot '  if  I  had  a  '  wishing 
carpet.' 

Tell  me  how  poor  little  Mrs.  Ewart  is. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Jane  Caklylb:. 

LETTER  319. 
To  Miss  Grace  Welsh,  Edinburgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Jan.  23, 1866. 

My  dear  Grace, — Have  you  any  more  news  of  Robert? '  I  weary 
to  hear  how  he  is,  though  without  hope  of  hearing  he  is  better. 
From  the  first  mention  of  his  illness,  I  have  felt  that  it  was  all  over 
with  the  poor  lad  for  this  life! 

One  thinks  it  so  sad  that  one's  family  should  die  out!  And  yet, 
perhaps,  it  is  best  (nay,  of  course  it  is  best,  since  God  has  so  or- 
dered it!)  that  a  family  lying  under  the  doom  of  a  hereditary, 
deadly  malady  should  die  out,  and  leave  its  room  in  the  universe  to 
healthier  and  happier  people!  But,  again,  hereditary  maladies 
are  not  the  only  maladies  that  kill ;  and  plenty  of  mothers  have, 
like  Mrs.  George  and  Mrs.  Robert,  seen  their  children,  one  after 

>  Uncle  Robert's  only  surviving  son,  who  had  returned  from  sea  in  a 
dangerous  state  of  health. 


282  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

another,  swept  from  the  earth  without  consumption  having  any- 
thing to  do  with  it.  It  is  hard,  hard  to  tell  by  what  death,  slow  or 
swift,  one  would  prefer  to  lose  one's  dearest  ones,  when  lose  them 
one  must ! 

Figure  what  has  just  befallen  that  dear,  kind  Dr.  B ,  who 

saved  my  life  (I  shall  always  consider)  by  taking  me  under  his  care 
at  St.  Leonards.     Of  all  his  sons,  the  most  promising  was  Captain 

P B ,  risen  to  be  naval  captain  while  still  very  young.     Oh, 

such  a  handsome,  kindly,  gallant  fellow!  He  had  married  a  beau- 
tiful girl  with  a  little  fortune,  and  they  were  the  happiest  pair!  A 
year  ago  he  was  made  '  Commander ' — a  signal  honour  for  so  young 
a  man!  and  just  three  weeks  ago  his  wife  was  confined  of  her 
second  baby,  in  her  mother's  house  at  St.  Leonards,  the  captain 
being  away  to  bring  home  a  ship  from  somewhere  in  the  West 
Indies.     Well!  four  days  ago,  in  reading  his  morning  newspaper. 

Dr.  B read  the  'Death  of  that  distinguished  officer,  Captain 

P B ,  from  fever,    after  three  days'   illness! '    It  is  too 

terrible  to  try  to  conceive  the  feelings  of  a  warm-hearted,  proud 
father  under  a  shock  like  that!    Not  a  word  of  warning! 

I  think  that  going  down  of  the  '  London '  has  sent  all  the  blood 
from  my  heart !  Ever  since  I  read  its  touching  details  I  have  felt 
in  a  maze  of  sadness,  have  had  no  affinity  for  any  but  sorrowful 
things,  and  can  find  in  my  whole  mind  no  morsel  of  cheerful  news 
to  tell  you!  Perhaps  I  am  even  more  stupid  than  sad;  and  no 
shame  to  me,  with  a  cold  in  my  head,  dating  from  before  Christ- 
mas! It  is  the  only  illness  I  have  had  to  complain  of  this  winter, 
and  is  no  illness  'to  speak  of;'  but,  none  the  less,  it  makes  me  very 
sodden  and  abject;  and,  instead  of  having  thoughts  in  my  head,  it 
(my  head)  feels  to  be  filled  with  wool !  Fuzzly  is  the  word  for  how 
I  feel,  all  through!  But  I  continue  to  take  my  three  hours'  drive 
daily,  all  the  same.  Since  I  returned  from  Folkestone  in  Septem- 
ber, I  have  only  missed  two  days!  the  days  of  the  snowstorm  a 
fortnight  ago;  when  it  was  so  dangerous  for  horses  to  travel,  that 
the  very  omnibuses  struck  work.  And  besides  the  forenoon  drive, 
I  occasionally,  with  this  wool  in  my  head,  go  out  to  dinner  !  !  ! 
With  a  hot  bottle  at  my  feet,  and  wrapt  in  fur,  I  take  no  hurt,  and 
the  talk  stirs  me  up.  Dr.  Quain  told  me  I  '  couldn't  take  a  better 
remedy,  if  only  I  drank  plenty  of  champagne  ' — a  condition  which 
I,  for  one,  never  find  any  difficulty  in  complying  with! 

My  chief  intimates  have  been  awaj^  all  this  winter,  Avliich  has 
made  my  life  less  pleasant — Lady  Ashburton  on  the  Continent,  and 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  263 

Miss  Davenport  Bromley  waiting  in  the  country  till  the  new  paint 
smell  should  have  gone  out  of  her  house.  But  there  are  always 
nice  people  to  take  the  place  of  those  absent.  It  made  me  laugh, 
dear,  that  Edinburgh  notion,  that  because  Mr.  C.  had  been  made 
Rector  of  the  University,  an  office  purely  honorary,  we  should  im- 
mediately proceed  to  tear  ourselves  up  by  the  roots,  and  transplant 
ourselves  there ! 

After  thirty  years  of  London,  and  with  such  society  as  we  have 
in  London,  to  bundle  ourselves  off  to  Edinburgh,  to  live  out  the 
poor  remnant  of  our  lives  in  a  new  and  perfectly  uncongenial 
sphere,  with  no  consolations  that  I  know  of  but  your  three  selves, 
and  dear  old  Betty!  Ach!  'A  wishing  carpet'  on  which  I  could 
sit  down,  and  be  transported  to  Craigenvilla,  for  an  hour's  talk 
with  you  all,  two  or  three  times  a  week,  and — back  again! — would 
be  a  most  welcome  fairy  gift  to  me!  But  no  '  villa  at  Morningside ' 
tempts  me,  except  your  villa!  And  for  Edinburgh  people — those  I 
knew  are  mostly  dead  and  gone;  and  the  new  ones  would  astonish 
me  much  if  they  afforded  any  shadow  of  compensation  for  the 
people  I  should  leave  here !  No,  my  dear,  we  shall  certainly  not 
go  '  to  live  in  Edinburgh ; '  I  only  wish  Mr.  C.  hadn't  to  go  to 
deliver  a  speech  in  it,  for  it  will  tear  him  to  tatters. 

Love  to  you  all.  '    Affectionately, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  330. 

•  To  Mrs.  Bussell,  Holm  Hill. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  January  29, 1866. 
The  town  is  no  longer  'empty.'  All  my  most  intimate  friends 
are  come  back,  except  Lady  Ashburton,  who,  alas!  will  still  re- 
main on  the  Continent,  and  give  no  certain  promise  of  return. 
Her  rheumatism  is  better;  but  there  are  family  reasons  for  her 
avoiding  England  at  present,  which  she  considers  imperative, 
though  her  friends  find  them  chimerical  enough.  Miss  Davenport 
Bromley  is  back;  the  Alderley  Stanle}\s, -the  Airlies,  the  Frondes, 
&c.  &c.  We  were  much  surprised  by  the  Lotliians  coming  to  London 
some  two  or  three  weeks  ago.  They  had  not  stirred  from  New- 
battle  Abbey  for  two  years!  The  poor  young  Marqius  came  the 
whole  journey  in  one  day.  Some  hope  of  electricity  had  been  put 
into  his  head,  and  they  had  been  trying  it  on  him.  He  said  ho 
'did  not  think  it  had  done  him  any  harm  as  yet;  but  that  was  the 


284  LETTERS  AND  MEMOEIALS  OF 

most  he  could  say.'  He  is  the  saddest  spectacle  I  have  seen  for 
long.  His  body  more  than  half  dead,  his  face  so  worn  with  suffer- 
ing, and  the  soul  looking  out  of  him  as  bright  as  in  his  best  days. 
I  had  not  seen  him  since  before  my  own  illness;  and  I  was  shocked 
with  the  change,  especially  in  his  voice,  which,  from  being  most 
musical,  had  become  harsh  and  husky.  She,  poor  soul,  bears  up 
wouderfull}^;  but  is  so  white  and  sad,  that  I  cannot  look  at  her 
without  dreading  for  her  the  fate  of  her  mother. 

The  house  (ours)  goes  on  peaceably  enough  on  the  whole;  not 
without  cries  of  ill  temper,  of  course.  But  I  have  got  Jessie  pretty 
well  in  hand  now.  It  is  mortifying,  after  all  my  romantic  hopes  of 
her,  to  find  that  kindness  goes  for  nothing  with  her,  and  that  she  is 
only  amenable  to  good  sharp  snubbing.  Well,  she  shall  have  it! 
At  the  same  time,  I  make  a  point  of  being  just  to  her  and  being 
kind  to  her,  as  a  mistress  to  a  servant.  So  she  got  the  '  nice  dress ' 
at  Christmas,  along  with  Mrs.  Warren ;  but  I  put  no  affection  into 
anything  I  do  for  her,  and  let  her  see  that  I  don't.  It  was  a  lucky 
Christmas  for  her.  Mr.  Ruskin  always  gives  my  servants  a  sover- 
eign apiece  at  that  season.  '  The  like  had  never  happened  to  her 
before,'  she  was  obliged  to  confess.  She  went  to  the  theatre  one 
night  with  some  Fergussons,  and  has  acquaintances  enough.  So  I 
hope  she  is  happj^  though  I  don't  like  her. 

Has  the  Doctor  seen  young  Corson,  who  had  to  leave  Swan  and 
Edgar's  with  a  bad  knee?  He  came  here  several  times  to  see 
Jessie.     Love  to  the  Doctor.  Yours  ever, 

J.  C. 

How  is  Mrs.  Ewart? 

LETTER  321. 

Miss  Ann  Welsh,  Ediniurgh. 

5  Cheyne  Kow:  Monday,  March  27, 1866. 

My  dear  Aunts, — It  is  long  since  I  have  written,  and  I  have  not 
leisure  for  a  satisfactory  letter  even  now ;  but  I  want  you  to  have 
these  two  admissions  in  good  time,  in  case  you  desire  to  hear  poor 
Mr.  C.'s  address,  and  don't  know  how  to  manage  it.  If  you  don't 
care  about  it,  or  can't  for  any  other  reason  use  the  admissions,  or 
either  of  them,  please  return  them  to  me  forthwith;  for  the  thing' 
comes  off  this  day  week  and  there  is  a  great  demand  for  them. 

Mr.  C.  was  too  modest,  when  asked  by  the  University  people 
how  many  admissions  he  wished  reserved  for  himself,  and  re- 

'  Carlyle's  address  to  the  students  as  Lord  Rector.— J.  A.  F. 


'ANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  285 

quired  only  twenty  for  men  and  six  for  women,  or,  as  I  suppose 
they  would  say  in  Edinburgh,  'ladies.'  Four  have  been  given 
away  to  ladies  who  have  shown  him  great  kindness  at  one  time  or 
other;  and  the  two  left  he  sends  to  you,  in  preference  to  some  dozen 
other  ladies  who  have  applied  for  them  directly  or  indirectly.  So 
you  see  the  propriety  of  my  request  to  have  one  or  both  returned  if 
you  are  prevented  from  using  them  yourselves. 

I  am  afraid,  and  he  himself  is  certain,  his  address  will  be  a  sad 
break-down  to  human  expectation.  He  has  had  no  practice  in  pub- 
lic speaking — hating  it  with  all  his  heart.  And  then  he  does  speaJc  ; 
does  not  merely  read  or  repeat  from  memory  a  composition  elabor- 
ately prepared — in  fact,  as  in  the  case  of  his  predecessors,  printed 
before  it  was  '  delivered ' ! 

I  wish  him  well  through  it,  for  I  am  very  fearful  the  worry  and 
flurry  of  the  thing  will  make  him  ill.  After  speculating  all  winter 
about  going  myself,  my  heart  failed  me  as  the  time  drew  near,  and 
I  realised  more  clearly  the  nervousness  and  pain  in  hy  back  that  so 
much  fuss  was  sure  to  bring  on.  I  did  not  dread  the  bodily  fatigue, 
but  the  mental.  We  were  to  have  broken  the  journey  by  stopping 
a  few  days  at  Lord  Houghton's,  in  Yorkshire,  and  after  giving  up 
Edinburgh,  I  thought  for  a  while  I  would  still  go  as  far  as  the 
Houghton's,  and  wait  there  till  Mr.  C.  returned.  But  that  part  of 
the  business  I  also  decided  against,  only  two  days  since,  preferring 
to  reserve  Yorkshire  till  summer,  and  till  I  was  in  a  more  tranquil 
frame  of  mind. 

Mr.  C.  is  going  to  stay  while  in  Edinburgh  at  Thomas  Erskine's, 
our  dear  old  friend;  not,  however,  because  of  liking  him  better  than 
anyone  else  there,  but  because  of  his  being  most  out  of  the  way  of 
— railway  whistles!  It  was  worth  while,  however,  to  have  talked 
of  accompanying  Mr.  C,  to  have  given  so  much  enthusiastic  hospi- 
tality an  opportunity  for  displaying  itself. 

One  of  the  letters  of  invitation  I  had  quite  surprised  me  by  its 
warmth  and  eagerness,  being  from  a  quarter  where  I  hardly  believed 
myself  remembered — David  Aitkcn  and  Eliza'Stoddart!  Tliey  had 
both  grown  into  sticks,  I  was  thinking.  But  I  have  no  time  to 
gossip. 

Do  send  me  soon  some  word  of  Robert,'  though  I  know  too  well 
there  can  no  good  news  come. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  W.  Carlyle. 

'  Her  dying  cousin. 


286  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER   322. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  T.  Erskine,  Esq.,  Edinburgh. 

Cheyne  Row:  Good  Friday,  March  30, 1866. 

Dearest, — What  with  your  being  on  the  road,  and  what  with  the 
regulations  of  Good  Friday,  I  don't  know  when  this  will  reach  you. 
Indeed  I  don't  know  anything  about  anything.  I  feel  quite  stupe- 
fied. I  should  have  liked  to  have  seen  your  handwriting  this  morn- 
ing, though  none  the  less  obliged  to  Mr.  Tyndall,  who  makes  the 
best  of  your  having  had  a  bad  night.  What  a  dear,  warm-hearted 
darling  he  is !  I  should  like  to  kiss  him !  I  did  sleep  some  last  night 
— the  first  wink  since  the  night  before  you  left.  Last  evening  1  felt 
quite  smashed,  so  willingly  availed  myself  of  the  feeble  pen  of 
Maggie,  >  who  had  walked  in  '  quite  promiscuous.'  She  was  back  at 
Agnes  Baird's,  and  had  fixed  to  leave  for  Liverpool  on  Saturday. 
For  decency's  sake  I  asked  her  to  come  here  instead  and  stay  over 
Sunday,  which  she  agreed  to  do.  She  will  be  company  to  James.* 
He  didn't  come  back  to  sleep  last  night,  having  accepted  an  invita- 
tion from  somebody  (McGeorge?)  at  Islington,  with  whom  he  was 
going  to  spend  Good  Friday  out  of  town  somewhere.  He  had  '  not 
quite'  concluded  about  his  office — '  all  but ;'  had  failed  in  all  attempts 
to  find  a  lodging,  but  this  McGeorge  '  would  help  him  in  looking,' 
he  thought.  I  pressed  him  to  keep  his  bed  here  till  he  was  suited, 
but  he  '  would  be  nearer  his  office  at  McGeorge's.'  He  is  to  come 
on  Sunday  morning,  however,  to  spend  the  day;  and  I  promised 
to  take  him  to  Richmond  Park  or  somewhere  before  dinner.  At 
parting,  for  the  present,  he  tried  to  make  a  good  little  speech  about 
'my  kindness  to  him.'  Pity  he  is  so  dreadfully  inarticulate,  for 
his  meaning  is  modest  and  affectionate,  poor  fellow. 

The  sudden  intimation  of  Venturi's  death,  sleepless  as  I  was  at 
the  time,  stunned  me  for  the  rest  of  the  day  like  a  blow  on  the 
head.  .  He  was  taken  ill  in  the  night  at  the  house  of  Herbert  Tay- 
lor, ^  but  would  not  allow  his  wife  to  raise  anyone,  or  to  make  any 
disturbance,  and  at  five  in  the  morning  he  was  dead.  There  was 
an  examination,  that  satisfied  the  doctors  he  had  died  of  heart 
disease,  and  that  he  must  have  been  suffering  a  great  deal,  while 
De  Musset  and  other  doctors  of  his  acquaintance  had  treated  any 
complaint  of  illness  he  made  as  '  imaginary,  the  result  of  his  unsat- 

'  Maggie  Welsh.  ^  Aitken,  now  attempting  business  in  the  City. 

'  John  Mill's  sfepson-in-law. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  287 

isf actory  lif e. '  Poor  Emilie  is,  as  you  may  imagine,  'like  death.' 
Mr.  Ashurst  was  trying  to  prevent  a  coroner's  inquest,  but  he  feared 
it  would  have  to  be — to-day. 

Good-bye !  Keep  up  your  heart  the  first  three  minutes,  and  after 
that  it  will  be  all  plain  sailing. 

Ever  yours, 

J.  C. 

LETTER   323. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  T.  ErsMne's,  Esq.,  Edinburgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  April  2,  1866. 

Dearest, — By  the  time  you  get  this  you  will  be  out  of  your  trouble, 
better  or  worse,  but  out  of  it  please  God.  And  if  ever  you  let  your- 
self be  led  or  driven  into  such  a  horrid  thing  again,  I  will  never  for- 
give you — never! 

What  I  have  been  suffering,  vicariously,  of  late  days  is  not  to  be 
told.  If  you  had  been  to  be  hanged  I  don't  see  that  I  could  have 
taken  it  more  to  heart.  This  morning  after  about  two  hours  of  off- 
and-on  sleep,  I  awoke,  long  before  daylight,  to  sleep  no  more. 
While  drinking  a  glass  of  wine  and  eating  a  biscuit  at  five  in  the 
morning,  it  came  into  my  mind,  '  What  is  7ie  doing,  I  wonder,  at 
this  moment?  '  And  then,  instead  of  picturing  you  sitting  smoking 
up  the  stranger-chimney,  or  anything  else  that  was  likely  to  be,  I 
found  myself  always  dropping  off  into  details  of  a  regular  execution! 
— Now  they  will  be  telling  him  it  is  time!  now  they  will  be  pinion- 
ing his  arms  and  saying  last  words!  Oh,  mercy!  was  I  dreaming 
or  waking?  was  I  mad  or  sane?  Upon  my  word,  I  hardly  know  now. 
Only  that  I  have  been  having  next  to  no  sleep  all  the  week,  and 
that  at  tlie  best  of  times  I  have  a  too  '  fertile  imagination,'  like  '  oor 
David.''  When  the  thing  is  over  I  shall  be  content,  however  it 
h*ve  gone  as  to  making  a  good  '  appearance '  or  a  bad  one.  That 
you  have  made  your  '  address,'  and  are  alive,  that  is  what  I  long  to 
hear,  and,  please  God !  shall  hear  in  a  few  hours.  My  '  imagina- 
tion '  has  gone  the  length  of  representing  you  getting  up  to  speak 
before  an  awful  crowd  of  people,  and,  what  with  fuss,  and  '  bad 
air,'  and  confusion,  dropping  down  dead. 

Why  on  earth  did  you  ever  get  into  this  galley? 

J.  W.  C. 

>  A  lying  boy  at  Haddington,  whom  his  mother  excused  in  that  way. 


288  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  324. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Edinburgh. 

6  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Tuesday,  April  8, 1866. 

I  made  so  sure  of  a  letter  this  morning  from  some  of  you — and 
'  nothing  but  a  double  letter  for  Miss  Welsh.'  Perhaps  I  should — 
that  is,  ought  to — have  contented  myself  with  Tyndall's  adorable 
telegram,  which  reached  me  at  Cheyne  Row  five  minutes  after  six 
last  evening,  considering  the  sensation  it  made. 

Mrs.  Warren  and  Maggie  were  helping  to  dress  me  for  Forster's 
birthday,  when  the  telegraph  boy  gave  his  double-knock.  '  There 
it  is!'  I  said.  'I  am  afraid,  cousin,  it  is  only  the  postman,'  said 
Maggie.  Jessie  rushed  up  with  the  telegram.  I  tore  it  open  and 
read,  '  From  John  TynduU '  (Oh,  God  bless  John  Tyndall  in  this 
world  and  the  next!)  'to  Mrs.  Carlyle.'  '  A  perfect  triumph ! '  I 
read  it  to  myself,  and  then  read  it  aloud  to  the  gaping  chorus. 
And  chorus  all  began  to  dance  and  clap  their  hands.  '  Eh,  Mrs. 
Carlyle!  Eh,  hear  to  that!'  cried  Jessie.  'I  told  you,  ma'am,' 
cried  Mrs.  Warren,  'I  told  you  how  it  would  be.'  'I'm  bo  glad, 
cousin!  you'll  be  all  right  now,  cousin,'  twittered  Maggie,  executing 
a  sort  of  leap-frog  round  me.  And  they  went  on  clapping  their 
hands,  till  there  arose  among  them  a  sudden  cry  for  brandy!  '  Get 
her  some  brandy! '  '  Do,  ma'am,  swallow  this  spoonful  of  brandy; 
just  a  spoonful !  For,  you  see,  the  sudden  solution  of  the  nervous 
tension  with  which  I  have  been  holding  in  my  anxieties  for  days — 
nay,  weeks,  past — threw  me  into  as  pretty  a  little  fit  of  hysterics  as 
you  ever  saw. 

I  went  to  Foster's  nevertheless,  with  my  telegram  in  my  hand, 
and  '  John  Tyndall '  in  the  core  of  my  heart !  And  it  was  pleasant 
to  see  with  what  hearty  good-will  all  there — Dickens  and  Wilkie 
Collins  as  well  as  Fuz — received  the  news;  and  we  drank  your 
health  with  great  glee.  Maggie  came  in  the  evening;  and  Fuz,  in 
his  joy  over  you,  sent  out  a  glass  of  brandy  to  Silvester!  Poor 
Silvester,  by-the-by,  showed  as  much  glad  emotion  as  anybody  on 
my  telling  him  you  had  got  well  through  it. 

Did  you  remember  Craik's  paper?  I  am  going  to  take  Maggie 
to  the  railway  for  Liverpool.  I  suppose  I  shall  now  calm  down 
and  get  sleep  again  by  degrees.    I  am  smashed  for  the  present. 

J.  W.  C. 


JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE.  289 

LETTER  325. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Edinburgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Wednesday,  April  4, 1866. 

Well !  I  do  think  you  might  have  sent  me  a  '  Scotsman '  this 
morning,  or  ordered  one  to  be  sent!  I  was  up  and  dressed  at  seven; 
and  it  seemed  such  an  interminable  time  till  a  quarter  after  nine, 
when  the  postman  came,  bringing  only  a  note  about — Cheltenham, 
from  Geraldine !  The  letter  I  had  from  Tyndall  yesterday  might 
have  satisfied  any  ordinary  man  or  woman,  you  would  have  said. 
But  I  don't  pretend  to  be  an  ordinary  man  or  woman;  I  am  per- 
fectly extraordinary,  especially  in  the  power  I  possess  of  fretting 
and  worrying  myself  into  one  fever  after  another,  without  any 
cause  to  speak  of!  What  do  you  suppose  I  am  worrying  about 
now? — because  of  the  'Scotsman'  not  having  come!  That  there 
may  be  in  it  something  about  your  having  fallen  ill,  which  you 
wished  me  not  to  see!  this  I  am  capable  of  fancying  at  moments; 
though  last  evening  I  saw  a  man  who  had  seen  you  '  smoking  very 
quietly  at  Masson's;'  and  had  heard  your  speech,  and — what  was 
more  to  the  purpose  (his  semi-articulateness  taken  into  account) — 
brought  me,  what  he  said  was  as  good  an  account  of  it  as  any  he 
could  give,  already  in  '  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette,'  written  by  a  hearty 
admirer  of  long  standing  evidently.  It  was  so  kind  of  Macmillan 
to  come  to  me  before  he  had  slept.  He  had  gone  in  the  morning 
straight  from  the  railway  to  his  shop  and  work.  He  seemed  still 
under  the  emotion  of  the  thing; — tears  starting  to  his  black  eyes 
every  time  he  mentioned  any  moving  part!  1 

Now  just  look  at  that!  If  here  isn't,  at  half  after  eleven,  when 
nobody  looks  for  the  Edinburgh  post,  your  letter,  two  newspapers, 
and  letters  from  my  aunt  Anne,  Thomas  Erskine,  and  '  David  Ait- 
ken  besides.'  I  have  only  as  yet  read  your  letter.  The  rest  will 
keep  now.  I  had  a  nice  letter  from  Henry  Davidson  yesterday,  as 
good  as  a  newspaper  critic.  What  pleases  me  most  in  this  business 
— I  mean  the  business  of  your  success — is  the  hearty  personal  affec- 
tion towards  you  that  comes  out  on  all  hands.  These  men  at  For- 
ster's  with  their  cheering — our  own  people — even  old  Silvester  turn- 
ing as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  his  lips  quivering  when  he  tried  to  ex- 
press his  gladness  over  the  telegraph:  all  that  is  positively  delight- 
ful, and  makes  the  success  '  a  good  joy  '  to  me.  No  appearance  of 
envy  or  grudging  in  anybody;  but  one  general,  loving,  heartfelt 
U.— 13 


290  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

throwing  up  of  caps  with  young  and  old,  male  and  female!  If  we 
could  only  sleep,  dear,  and  what  you  call  digest,  wouldn't  it  be 
nice? 

Now  I  must  go ;  I  promised  to  try  and  get  Madame  Venturi  out 
with  me  for  a  little  air.  She  has  been  at  her  brother's,  quite  near 
Forster's,  since  the  funeral.  The  history  she  herself  gave  me  of 
the  night  of  his  death  was  quite  excruciating.  He  look  these  spasms 
which  killed  him,  soon  after  they  went  to  bed;  and  till  five  in  the 
morning  the  two  poor  souls  were  struggling  on,  he  positively  forbid- 
ding her  to  give  an  alarm.  Mrs.  Taylor  had  a  child  just  recovering 
from  scarlet  fever,  and  sent  from  home  for  fear  of  infecting  the 
others.  "When  Emilie  would  have  gone  to  the  Taylors'  bedroom  to 
tell  them,  he  said,  '  Consider  the  poor  mother!  If  you  rouse  her 
suddenly,  she  will  think  there  has  come  bad  news  of  her  child!  It 
might  do  her  great  harm.'  'And  I  thought,  dear,  there  was  no 
danger,'  she  said  to  me.  '  The  doctors  had  so  constantly  said  he  had 
no  ailment  but  indigestion.'  It  was  soon  after  this  that  he  '  threw 
up  his  arms  as  if  he  had  been  shot;  and  fixed  his  eyes  with  a  strange 
wondering  look,  as  if  he  saw  something  beautiful  and  surprising; 
and  then  fell  to  the  floor  dead ! '  I  am  so  glad  she  likes  me  to 
come  to  her,  for  it  shows  slie  is  not  desperate. 

Oh,  dear,  I  wish  you  had  been  coming  straight  back!'  for  it 
would  be  so  quiet  for  you  here  just  now:  there  isn't  a  soul  left  in 
London  but  Lady  William,  whom  I  haven't  seen  since  the  day  you 
left.     I  am  afraid  she  is  unwell. 

Good-bye  1  We  have  the  sweeps  to-day  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
elsewhere.  Affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carltle. 

LETTER  326. 

Read  near  Cleughbrae,  on  the  road  to  Scotsbrig.  Came  thither, 
Saturday,  April  7. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

'  5  Cheyne  Row:  Friday,  April  6,  1866. 

Dearest, — Scotsbrig,  I  fancy,  will  be  the  direction  now. 

lam  just  getting  ready  to  start  for  Windsor,  to  stay  a  day  and 
night,  or  two  nights  if  the  first  be  successful,  with  Mrs.  Oliphant. 
Even  that  much  '  change   of  air  '  and  '  schaue  ' '  may,    perhaps, 

'  Oh,  that  I  had— alas,  alas ! 

*  Old  grandfather  W^alter's  '  vaary  the  schane.' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  891 

break  the  spell  of  sleeplessness  that  has  overtaken  me.  It  is  easier 
to  go  off  one's  sleep  than  to  go  on  to  it.  I  did  rather  better  last 
night,  however,  after  an  eight  o'clock  dinner  with  the  Lothians. 
The  American,  Mason,  was  there — a  queer,  fine  old  fellow,  with  a 
touch  of  my  grandfather  Walter  in  him.  Both  Lord  and  Lady,  and 
the  beauty,  Lady  Adelaide,  were  so  kind  to  me.  It  made  me  like 
to  'go  off,'  to  hear  the  young  Marquis  declaring  'how  much  he 
wished  he  could  have  heard  your  speech.'  He  looked  perfectly 
lovely  yesterday,  much  more  cheerful  and  bright  than  I  have  seen 
him  since  he  came  to  London.  They  seemed  to  take  the  most  affec- 
toinate  interest  in  the  business. 

Lady  William,  too,  charged  me  with  a  long  message  I  haven't 
time  for  here.  I  found  her  in  bed  in  the  middle  of  newspapers, 
which  she  had  been  '  reading  and  comparing  all  the  morning;  and 
had  discovered  certain  variations  in!'  I  am  to  dine  with  her  on 
Sunday,  after  my  return  from  Windsor.  Miss  Bromley  is  come 
back;  she  came  yesterday,  and  I  am  to  dine  with  her  on  Tuesday. 
I  needn't  be  dull,  you  see,  unless  I  like! 

Will  you  tell  Jamie  the  astonishing  fact  that  I  have  eaten  up  all 
the  meal  he  sent  me,  and  cannot  live  without  cakes.  Ei-go!  Also 
take  good  care  of  Betty's  tablecloth!'  She  writes  me  it  was  her 
mother's  s^emn^r.  She  was  awfully  pleased  at  your  visit.  'What 
ami,  O  der  me,  to  be  so  vesated!'  Here  is  an  exuberant  letter 
from  Charles  Kingsley.  Exuberant  letters,  more  of  them  than  I 
can  ever  hope  to  answer.  Lady  Airlie  offers  to  come  and  drink 
tea  with  me  on  Sunday  night.  '  Can't  be  done ' — must  write  in 
this  hurry  to  put  her  off.  Even  I  have  my  hurries,  you  see.  Kind 
love  to  Jamie  and  the  rest. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  327. 
T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Tuesday,  April  10,  1866. 
Alas,  I  missed  Tyndall's  call!  and  was  '  vaixed! '  He  left  word 
with  Jessie  that  you  were  '  looking  well;  and  every  body  worship- 
ping you! '  and  I  thought  to  myself,  'A  pity  if  he  have  taken  the 
habit  of  being  worshipped,  for  he  may  find  some  difficulty  in  keep- 
ing it  up  here! ' 

»  A  gift  of  poor  Betty'i— never  to  arrive. 


292  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

Finding  the  first  night  at  "Windsor  (Friday  night)  a  great  success, 
I  gladly  stayed  a  second  night;  and  only  arrived  at  Cheyne  Row  in 
time  for  Lady  William's  Sunday  dinner.  It  couldn't  be  'quiet* 
that  helped  me  to  sleep  so  well  at  Mrs.  Oliphant's;  for  all  day  long 
I  was  in  the  presence  of  fellow-creatures.  The  first  evening,  besides 
two  Miss  TuUochs  living  in  the  house,  there  arrived  to  tea  and  sup- 
per (!)  a  family  of  Hawtreys,  to  the  number  of  seven !— seven  grown- 
up brothers  and  sisters!!  The  eldest,  'Mr.  Stephen,'  with  very 
white  hair  and  beard,  is  Master  of  Mathematics  at  Eton;  and  has  a 
pet  school  of  his  own — tradesmen's  sons,  and  the  like — on  which 
he  lays  out  three  hundred  a  year  of  his  own  money.  He  compli- 
mented me  on  your  'excellent  address,'  which  he  said  'We  read 
aloud  to  our  boys.'  I  asked  Mrs.  Oliphant  after,  what  boys  he 
meant?  She  said  it  would  be  the  boys  of  his  hobby  school;  they 
were  the  only  boys  in  the  world  for  Mr.  Stephen!  On  the  follow- 
ing day  arrived  Principal  TuUoch,  and  wife,  on  a  long  visit.  Mrs. 
Oliphant  seems  to  me  to  be  eaten  up  with  long  visitors.  He  (the 
Principal)  had  been  at  the  '  Address,' and  seen  you  walking  in  your 
wideawake  with  your  brother,  just  as  himself  was  leaving  Edin- 
burgh. 

Frederick  Elliot  and  Hay  ward  (!)  were  at  Lady  William's.  Hay- 
ward  was  raging  against  the  Jamaica  business — would  have  had 
Eyre  cut  into  small  pieces,  and  eaten  raw.  He  told  me  women 
might  patronize  Eyre — that  women  were  naturally  cruel,  and  rather 
liked  to  look  on  while  horrors  were  perpetrated.  But  no  man  liv- 
ing could  stand  up  for  Eyre  now!  '  I  hope  Mr.  Carlyle  does,'  I 
said.  'I  haven't  had  an  opportunity  of  asking  him;  but  I  should 
be  surprised  and  giieved  if  I  found  him  sentimentalising  over  a 
pack  of  black  brutes! '  After  staring  at  me  a  moment:  'Mr.  Car- 
lyle!' said  Hay  ward.  'Oh,  yes!  Mr.  Carlyle!  one  cannot  indeed 
swear  what  he  will  not  say!  His  great  aim  and  philosophy  of  life 
being  "  The  smallest  happiness  of  the  fewest  number!  "  ' 

I  slept  very  ill  again,  that  night  of  my  return;  but  last  night  was 
better,  having  gone  to  bed  dead  weary  of  such  a  tea-party  as  you 
will  say  could  have  entered  into  no  human  head  but  mine!  Sarto- 
sina,'  Count  Reichenbach,  and  James  Aitken!  !  there  was  to  have 
been  also  Lady  Airlie ! !  !  You  have  no  idea  how  well  Reichenbach 
and  James  suit  each  other!    They  make  each  other  quite  animated. 


1  A  tailor's  daughter,  in  the  Kensington  region,  a  modest  yet  ardent 
admirer,  whom,  liking  the  tone  of  her  letter,  she  drove  to  see,  and  liked,  and 
continued  to  like. 


JANE  WELSH  CAKLYLE.  293 

by  the  delight  each  seems  to  feel  in  finding  a  man  more  inarticulate 
than  himself!  They  got  towards  the  end  into  little  outbursts  of 
laughter,  of  a  very  peculiar  kind!  Yours  ever, 

Jane  Cabltlb. 
Send  me  a  proof '  as  soon  as  you  can. 

LETTER  328. 

I  still  in  Edinburgh  on  that  fated  visit.  I  called  on  Mrs.  Stirling; 
the  last  time  I  have  seen  her.  This  letter  was  dated  only  ten  days 
before  the  utter  ^nw. 

The  sudden  death  mentioned  here,  minutely  and  sympathetically 
described  in  a  letter  to  me,  was  that  of  Madame  Venturi's  (born 
Ashurst's)  Italian  husband,''  with  both  of  whom  she  was  familiar. 
— T.  C. 

To  Mrs.  Stirling,  Hill  Street,  Edinhurgh. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Wednesday,  April  11, 1866. 

My  dear  Susan  Hunter, — No  change  of  modern  times  would  have 
surprised  me  more  disagreeably  than  your  addressing  me  in  any 
other  style  than  the  old  one.  The  delight  of  you  is  just  the  faith 
one  has — has  always  had — in  your  constancy.  One  mayn't  see  you 
for  twenty  years,  but  one  would  go  to  j'ou  at  the  end  with  perfect 
certainty  of  being  kissed  as  warmly  and  made  as  much  of  as  when 
we  were  together  in  the  age  of  enthusiasm. 

I  was  strongly  tempted  to  accompany  Mr.  C.  to  Edinburgh  and 
see  you  all  once  more.  But,  looked  at  near  hand,  my  strength,  or 
rather  my  courage,  failed  me  in  presence  of  the  prospective  demand 
on  my  'finer  sensibilities.'  Since  my  long,  terrible  illness,  I  have 
had  to  quite  leave  off  .seeking  emotions,  and  cultivating  them.  I  had 
done  a  great  deal  too  much  of  that  sort  of  work  in  my  time.  Even 
at  this  distance  I  lost  my  sleep,  and  was  tattered  to  fiddle-strings 
for  a  week  by  that  flare-up  of  popularity  in  Edinburgh.  To  be 
sure  the  sudden  death  of  an  apparently  healthy  young  man,  hus- 
band of  one  of  my  most  intimate  friends,  had  shocked  me  into  an 
unusually  morbid  mood ;  to  say  nothing  of  poor  Craik  struck  down 
whilst  opening  his  mouth  to  reprove  a  pupil.  I  had  got  it  into  my 
head  that  the  previous  sleeplessness  and  fatigue,  and  the  fuss  and 
closeness  of  a  crowded  room,  and  the  novelty  of  the  whole  thing, 
would  take  such  effect  on  Mr.  C.  that  when  he  stood  up  to  speak 


'  Correcting  to  the  Edinburgh  printer  of  the  Address.    A  London  pirate 
quite  forestalled  me  and  It. 
>  See  page  290. 


294  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

he  would  probablj^  drop  down  dead !  When  at  six  o'clock  I  got  a 
telegram  from  Professor  Tyndall  to  tell  me  it  was  over,  and  well 
over,  the  relief  was  so  sudden  and  complete,  that  I  (what  my  cook 
called)  'went  off' — that  is,  took  a  violent  fit  of  crying,  and  had 
brandy  given  me. 

I  am  very  busy  and  cannot  write  along  letter;  but  a  short  one, 
containing  the  old  love  and  a  kiss,  will  be  better  than  'silence,' 
however  '  golden.'  Your  very  affectionate 

J.  W.  Carlyle. 

LETTER  329. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Thursday,  April  12, 1866. 

Dearest, — I  sent  you  better  than  a  letter  yesterday — a  charming 
'Punch,'  which  I  hope  you  received  in  due  course;  but  Geraldine 
undertook  the  posting  of  it,  and,  as  Ann  said  of  her  long  ago, 
'  Miss  can  write  books,  but  I'm  sure  it's  the  only  thing  she's  fit  for.' 
Well,  there  only  wanted  to  complete  your  celebrity  that  you  should 
be  in  the  chief  place  of  'Punch';'  and  there  you  are,  cape  and 
wideawake,  making  a  really  creditable  appearance.  I  must  repeat 
what  I  said  before — that  the  best  part  of  this  success  is  the  general 
feeling  of  personal  goodwill  that  pervades  all  thej'-  say  and  write 
about  you.  Even  '  Punch  '  cuddles  you,  and  purrs  over  you,  as  if 
you  were  his  favourite  son.  From  'Punch'  to  Terry  the  green- 
grocer is  a  good  step,  but,  let  me  tell  you,  he  (Terry)  asked  Mrs. 
Warren — '  Was  Mr.  Carlyle  the  person  they  wrote  of  as  Lord  Rec- 
tor?' and  Mrs.  Warren  having  answered  in  her  stage  voice,  'The 
very  same!'  Terry  shouted  out  ('Quite  shouted  it,  ma'm!'),  'I 
never  was  so  glad  of  anj-thing!  By  George,  I  am  glad!'  Both 
Mrs.  Warren  and  Jessie  rushed  out  and  bought  '  Punches '  to  send 
to  their  families;  and,  in  the  fervour  of  their  mutual  enthusiasm, 
they  have  actually  ceased  hostilities — for  the  present.  It  seems  to 
me  that  on  every  new  compliment  paid  you  these  women  run  and 
fry  something,  such  savoury  smells  reach  me  upstairs. 

Lady  Lothian  was  here  the  day  before  yesterday  with  a  remarka- 
bly silly  Mrs.  L .     I  was  to  tell  you  that  she  (Lady  L.)  was 

very  impatient  for  your  return — 'missed  you  dreadfully.'  I  was 
to  'come  some  day  before  luncheon,  and  then  we  could  go — some- 

'  It  came  to  Scotsbrig,  with  this  letter,  late  at  night;  how  merry  it  made  lis 
aU:  oh,  Heaven:  'merry I' 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  295 

where. '    To  Miss  Evans '  is  where  we  should  go  still,  if  you  would 
let  us. 

Don't  forget  my  oatmeal. 

There  is  a  large  sheet  from  the  Pall  Mall  Bank,  acknowledging 
the  receipt  of  seventy  pounds  '  only. '  I  don't  forward  any  non- 
sense letters  come  to  you.  This  one  inclosed  has  sex  and  youth  to 
plead  for  it — so,  Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 

My  kindest  regards  to  Mary,^  for  whom  I  have  made  a  cap,  you 
may  tell  her,  but  couldn't  get  it  finished  before  you  left. 

LETTER  330. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Friday,  April,  13, 1866. 

Oh,  what  a  pity,  dear,  and  what  a  stupidity  I  must  say !  After 
coming  safely  through  so  many  fatigues  and  dangers  to  go  and 
sprain  your  ankle,  off  your  own  feet!  And  such  treatment  the 
sprain  will  get!  Out  you  will  go  with  it  morning  and  night,  along 
the  roughest  roads,  and  keep  up  the  swelling  Heaven  knows  how 
long!  The  only  comfort  is  that  'Providence  is  kind  to  women, 
fools,  and  drunk  people,'  and  in  the  matter  of  taking  care  of  your- 
self you  come  under  the  category  of  'fools,'  if  ever  any  wise  man 
did. 

There  came  a  note  for  you  last  night  that  will  surprise  you  at 
this  date  as  much  as  it  did  me,  though  I  daresay  it  won't  make  you 
start  and  give  a  little  scream  as  it  did  me.  *  It — such  a  note ! — is 
hardly  more  friendly  than  silence,  but  it  is  more  polite.  I  wish  I 
hadn't  sent  him  that  kind  message.  Virtue  (forgiveness  of  wrong, 
'milk  of  human  kindness,' and  all  that  sort  of  ' damned  thing ') 
being  '  ever  its  own  reward,  unless  something  particular  occurs  to 
prevent,'  which  it  almost  invariably  does. 

There !  I  must  get  ready  for  that  blessed  carriage.  I  have  been 
redding  up  all  morning.  Ever  yours, 

J.  W.  Carlyle. 

It  would  be  good  to  send  back  Mill's  letter,  that  Reichenbach 
might  tell  Lowe  •*  of  it. 

'  Famous  '  George  Eliot '  for  some  such  pseudonym).  '  Sister. 

*  A  note  from  John  Mill— re.sponse  about  some  trifle,  after  long  delay. 

*  Lowe  (German,  unknown  to  me)  wanted  to  translate  something  of  Mill's, 
and  bad  applied,  through  Reichenbach,  to  me  on  the  matter. 


296  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

LETTER  331. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row:  Tuesday,  April  17,  1866. 

Oh,  my  dear,  these  women  are  too  tiresome !  Time  after  time  I 
have  sworn  to  send  on  none  of  their  nonsense,  but  to  burn  it  or  to 
let  it  lie,  as  I  do  all  about  ' ,'  and  there  is  always  '  a  some- 
thing' that  touches  me  on  their  behalf.  Here  is  this  Trimnell! 
She  was  doomed,  and  should  have  been  cast  into  outer  darkness 
(of  the  cupboard)  but  for  that  poor  little  phrase,  '  as  much  as  my 

weak  brains  will  permit.'    And  the  Caroline  C (who  the  deuce 

is  she  that  writes  such  a  scratchy,  illegible  hand?)  sends  her  love  to 
Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  proposes  to  '  to  talk  to  her  about  Amisfield  and 
Haddington.'  'Encouraged  by  your  brother  to  beg,'  &c.  &c., 
complicates  the  question  still  further.  Yes,  it  is  the  mixing  up  of 
things  that  is  '  the  great  bad.' ' 

I  called  at  the  Royal  Institution  yesterday  to  ask  if  Tyndall  had 
returned.  He  was  there;  and  I  sat  some  time  with  him  in  his 
room  hearing  tlie  minutest  details  of  your  doings  and  sufferings  on 
the  journey.  It  is  the  event  of  Tyudall's  life!  Crossing  the  hall, 
I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  officials  were  hurrying  about;  and 
I  asked  the  one  nearest  me,  'Is  there  to  be  lecturing  here  to-day?' 
The  man  gave  me  such  a  look,  as  if  1  was  deeranged,  and  people 
going  up  the  stairs  turned  and  looked  at  me  as  if  I  was  deeranged. 
Neuberg  ran  down  to  me  and  asked,  '  Wouldn't  I  hear  the  lec- 
ture? '  And  by  simply  going  out  when  everyone  else  Avas  going  in 
I  made  myself  an  object  of  general  interest.  As  I  looked  back 
from  the  carriage  window  I  saw  all  heads  in  the  hall  and  on  the 
stairs  turned  towards  me. 

I  called  at  Miss  Bromley's  after.  She  had  dined  at  Marochetti's 
on  Saturday,  being  to  go  with  them  to  some  spectacle  after.  The 
spectacle  which  she  saw  without  any  going  was  a  great  fire  of 
Marochetti's  stucTio — furnaces  overheated  in  casting  Landseer's 
'great  lion.' 

How  dreadful  that  poor  woman's'  suicide  1  What  a  deal  of  mis- 
ery it  must  take  to  drive  a  working-woman   to  make  away  with 


'  Reichenbach's  phrase. 

^  A  poor  neuralgic  woman,  near  Scotsbrig— a  daughter  of  old  Betty  Small's 
(mentioned  already?—'  head  like  a  viall,'  &c.). 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  297 


her  lifel    What  does  Dr.  Carlyle  make  of  such  a  case  as  that?    No 
idleness,  nor  luxury,  nor  novel-reading  to  make  it  all  plain.' 

Ever  yours,  J.  W.  C. 

LETTER  333. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea:  Thursday,  April  19, 1866. 

I  read  the  Memoir  ^  '  first '  yesterday  morning,  having  indeed 
read  the  '  Address '  the  evening  before,  and  read  in  some  three 
times  in  different  newspapers.  If  you  call  that  'laudatory,' you 
must  be  easily  pleased.  I  never  read  such  stupid,  vulgar  januers.^ 
The  last  of  calumnies  that  I  should  ever  have  expected  to  hear 
uttered  about  you  was  this  of  your  going  about  '  filling  the  laps  of 
dirty  children  with  comfits.'  Idiot!  My  half-pound  of  barley-sugar 
made  into  such  a  legend !  The  wretch  has  even  failed  to  put  the  right 
number  to  the  sketch  of  the  house — 'No.  7!'  A  luck,  since  he 
was  going  to  blunder,  that  he  didn't  call  it  No.  6,  with  its  present 
traditions.  It  is  prettily  enough  done,  the  house.  I  recollect  look- 
ing over  the  blind  one  morning  and  seeing  a  young  man  doing  it. 
'  What  can  he  be  doing? '  I  said  to  Jessie.  '  Oh,  counting  the 
windows  for  the  taxes,'  she  answered  quite  confidently;  and  I  waa 
satisfied. 

I  saw  Frederick  Chapman  yesterday,  and  he  was  very  angry. 
He  had  '  frightened  the  fellow  out  of  advertising,'  he  said;  and  he 
had  gone  round  all  the  booksellers  who  had  sub.scribed  largely  for 
the  spurious  Address,  and  required  them  to  withdraw  their  orders. 
By  what  right,  I  wonder?  Difficulty  of  procuring  it  will  only  make 
it  the  more  sought  after,  I  should  think.  '  By  making  it  felony, 
ma'am,  yourselves  have  raised  the  price  of  getting  your  dogs  back.'  ■• 

I  didn't  write  yesterday  because,  in  the  first  place  I  was  very 
sick,  and  in  the  second  place  I  got  a  moral  shock, ^  that  stunned  me 
pro  tempore.  No  time  to  tell  you  about  that  just  now,  but  an- 
other day. 

'  Alas!  that  was  a  blind,  hasty,  and  cruel  speech  of  poor,  good  John's  I 
'  By  London  pirate. 
'  Capital  Scotch  word. 

*  London  dog-stealers  pleaded  so,  on  the  Act  passed  against  them. 

•  What  I  could  never  guess. 

U.— 13* 


298  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OF 

I  have  put  the  women  to  sleep  in  your  bed  to  air  it.  It  seems  so 
long  since  you  went  away. 

Imagine  the  tea  party  I  am  to  have  on  Saturday '  night.  Mrs. 
Oliphant,  Principal  Tulloch  and  wife  and  two  grown-up  daugh- 
ters, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Froude,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spottiswoode ! 

Did  you  give  Jane  the  things  I  sent? '  When  one  sends  a  thing 
one  likes  to  know  if  it  has  been  received  safe. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 
LETTER  333. 

The  last  words  her  hand  ever  wrote.  Why  should  I  tear  my 
heart  by  reading  them  so  often?  They  reached  me  at  Dumfries, 
Sunday,  April  22,  tifteen  hours  after  the  fatal  telegram  had  come. 
Bright  weather  this,  and  the  day  before  I  was  crippling  out  Ter- 
regles  way,  among  the  silent  green  meadows,  at  the  moment  when 
she  left  this  earth. 

Spottiswoodes,  King's  Printer  people.  I  durst  never  see  them 
since.     Miss  Wynne,  I  hear,  is  dead  of  cancer  six  months  ago. 

'  Very  equal,'  a  thrifty  Annandale  phrase. 

'  Scende  da  carrozza '  (Degli  Antoni). 

'  Picture  of  Frederick. '  1  sent  for  it  on  the  Tuesday  following, 
directly  on  getting  to  Chelsea.  It  still  hangs  there;  a  poor  enough 
Potsdam  print,  but  to  me  priceless. 

I  am  at  Addiscombe  in  the  room  that  was  long  '  Lady  Harriet's; ' 
day  and  house  altogether  silent,  Thursday,  August  5,  1869,  while 
I  finish  this  unspeakable  revisal  (reperusal  and  study  of  all  her 
letters  left  to  me).  Task  of  about  eleven  months,  and  sad  and 
strange  as  a  pilgrimage  through  Hades.— T.  C. 

T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  The  Hill,  Dumfries. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea  :  Saturday,  April  21, 1865. 
Dearest, — It  seems  'just  a  consuming  of  time'  to  write  to-day, 
when  you  are  coming  the  day  after  to-morrow.  But  '  if  there  were 
nothing  else  in  it '  (your  phrase)  such  a  piece  of  liberality  as  letting 
one  have  letters  on  Sunday,  if  called  for,  should  be  honoured  at 
least  by  availing  oneself  of  it!  All  long  stories,  however,  may  be 
postponed  till  next  week.  Indeed,  I  have  neither  long  stories  nor 
short  ones  to  tell  this  morning.  To-morrow,  after  the  tea-party,  I 
may  have  more  to  say,  provided  I  survive  it!  Though  how  I  am 
to  entertain,  'on  my  own  basis,'  eleven  people  in  a  hot  night 
'  without  refreshment '  (to  speak  of)  is  more  than  I  '  see  my  way ' 

'  Oh,  Heaven! 

^  I  did,  and  told  her  so  in  the  letter  she  never  received.    Why  should  /  ever 
read  this  again  I    (Note  of  1866.) 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  299 

through!  Even  as  to  cups — there  are  only  ten  cups  of  company- 
china;  and  eleven  are  coming,  myself  making  twelve!  '  After  all,' 
said  Jessie,  '  you  had  once  eight  at  tea — three  mair  won't  kill  us! ' 
I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  Let  us  hope  the  motive  will  sanctify  the 
end;  being  '  the  welfare  of  others!'  an  unselfish  desire  to  '  make 
two  Ba-ings  happy : '  Principal  TuUoch  and  Froude,  who  have  a 
great  liking  for  one  another!  The  Spottiswoodes  were  added  in 
the  same  philanthropic  spirit.  We  met  in  a  shop,  and  they  begged 
permission  to  come  again ;  so  I  thought  it  would  be  clever  to  get 
them  over  (handsomely  with  Froude  and  Mrs.  Oliphant)  before  you 
came.  Miss  Wynne  offered  herself,  by  accident,  for  that  same 
night. 

The  Marchioness  was  here  yesterday,  twice ;  called  at  four  when 
I  hadn't  returned,  and  called  at  five.  She  brought  with  her  yester- 
day a  charming  old  Miss  Talbot,  with  a  palsied  head,  but  the  most 
loveable  babyish  old  face !  She  seemed  to  take  to  me,  as  I  did  to 
her;  and  Lady  Lothian  stayed  behind  a  minute,  to  ask  if  I  would 
go  with  her  some  day  to  see  this  Miss  Talbot,  who  had  a  house  full 
of  the  finest  pictures.  You  should  have  sent  the  Address  to  Lord 
Lothian  or  Lady.  I  see  several  names  on  the  list  less  worthy  of 
such  attention. 

Chapman  is  furious  at  Hotten;  no  wonder!  When  he  went 
round  to  the  booksellers,  he  found  that  everywhere  Hotten  had 
got  the  start  of  him.  Smith  and  Elder  had  bought  five  hundred 
copies  from  Hotten!  And  poor  Frederick  did  not  receive  his 
copies  from  Edinburgh  till  he  had  '  telegraphed,'  six-and-thirty 
hours  after  I  had  received  mine. 

I  saw  in  an  old  furniture-shop  window  at  Richmond  a  copy  of 
the  Frederick  picture  that  was  lent  you — not  bad ;  coarsely  painted, 
but  the  likeness  well  preserved.  Would  you  like  to  have  it?  I 
will,  if  so,  make  j'ou  a  present  of  it,  being  to  be  had  '  very  equal.* 
I  'descended  from  the  carriage,'  and  asked,  '  What  was  that?' 
(meaning  what  price  was  it).  The  broker  told  me  impressively, 
'That,  ma'am,  is  Peter  the  Great.'  'Indeed!  and  what  is  the 
price?'  '  Seven-and-sixpence.'  I  offered  five  shillings  on  the  spot, 
but  he  would  only  come  down  to  six  shillings.  I  will  go  back  for 
it  if  you  like,  and  can  find  a  place  for  it  on  my  wall. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  W.  C. 


300  LETTERS  AND  MEMORIALS  OP 

Oa  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  the  preceding  letter  was 
written,  Mrs.  Carlyle  died  suddenly  in  her  carriage  in  Hyde  Park. 
A  letter  of  Miss  Jewsbury's  relating  the  circumstances  which  at- 
tended and  followed  her  death  has  been  already  published  in  the 
'Reminiscences.'  I  reprint  it  here  as  a  fit  close  to  this  book. — 
J.  A.  F. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle. 

'  43  Markham  Square,  Chelsea:  May  26,  1866. 

'  Dear  Mr.  Carlj'le, — I  think  it  better  to  write  than  to  speak  on 
the  miserable  subject  about  which  you  told  me  to  inquire  of  Mr. 
Silvester.'  I  saw  him  today.  He  said  that  it  would  be  about 
twenty  minutes  after  three  o'clock  or  thereabouts  when  they  left 
Mr.  Forster's  house;  that  he  then  drove  through  the  Queen's  Gate, 
close  by  Kensington  Gardens,  that  there,  at  the  uppermost  gate, 
she  got  out,  and  walked  along  the  side  of  the  Gardens  very  slowly, 
about  two  hundred  paces,  with  the  little  dog  running,  until  she 
came  to  the  Serpentine  Bridge,  at  the  southern  end  of  which  she 
got  into  the  carriage  again,  and  he  drove  on  till  they  came  to  a 
quiet  place  on  the  Tyburuia  side,  near  Victoria  Gate,  and  then  she 
put  out  the  little  dog  to  run  along.  When  they  came  opposite 
to  All)ion  Street,  Stanhope  Place  (lowest  thoroughfare  of  Park 
towards  Marble  Arch),  a  brougham  coming  along  upset  the  dog, 
whicii  lay  on  its  back  screaming  for  a  while,  and  then  she  pulled 
the  check-string;  and  he  turned  round  and  pulled  up  at  the  side 
of  the  foot-path,  and  there  the  dog  was  (he  had  got  up  out  of  the 
road  and  gone  there).  Almost  before  the  carriage  stopped  she 
was  out  of  it.  The  lady  whose  brougham  had  caused  the  accident 
got  out  also,  and  several  other  ladies  who  were  walking  had 
stopped  round  the  dog.  The  lady  spoke  to  her;  but  he  could  not 
hear  what  she  said,  and  the  other  ladies  spoke.  She  then  lifted 
tlic  dog  into  the  carriage,  and  got  in  herself.  He  asked  if  the 
little  dog  was  hurt;  but  he  thinks  she  did  not  hear  him,  as  car- 
riages were  passing.  He  heard  tlie  dog  squeak  as  if  she  had  been 
feeling  it  (nothing  but  a  toe  was  hurt);  this  was  the  last  sound  or 
sigli  he  ever  heard  from  her  place  of  fate.  He  went  on  towards 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  turned  there  and  drove  past  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington's Acliilles  figure,  up  the  drive  to  the  Serpentine  and  past 
it,  and  came  round  by  the  road  where  the  dog  was  hurt,  past  the 
Duke  of  Wellington's  house  and  past  the  gate  opposite  St.  George's. 
Getting  no  sign"  (noticing  only  the  two  hands  laid  on  the  lap,  palm 
uppermost  the  right  hand,  reverse  way  the  left,  and  all  motion- 
less), he  turned  into  the  Serpentine  drive  again;  but  after  a  few 
yards,  feeling  a  little  surprised,  he  looked  back,  and,  seeing  her  in 
the  same  posture,  became  alarmed,  made  for  the  streetward  en- 
trance into  the  Park  a  few  yards  westward  of  gatekeeper's  lodge, 
and  asked  a  lady  to  look  in;  and  she  said  what  we  know,  and  she 
addressed  a  gentleman  who  confirmed  her  fears.  It  was  then  fully 
a  quarter  past  four;  going  on  to  twenty  minutes  (but  nearer  the 

'  Mrs.  Carlyle's  coachman. 


JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE.  801 

quarter);  of  this  he  is  quite  certain.  She  was  leaning  back  in  one 
corner  of  the  carriage,  rugs  spread  over  her  knees ;  her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  her  upper  lip  slightly,  slightly  opened.  Those  who 
saw  her  at  the  hospital  and  when  in  the  carriage  speak  of  the 
beautiful  expression  upon  her  face. 

'  On  that  miserable  night,  when  we  were  preparing  to  receive 
her,  Mrs.  Warren '  came  to  me  and  said,  that  one  time,  when  she 
was  very  ill,  she  said  to  her,  that  when  the  last  had  come,  she  was 
to  go  upstairs  into  the  closet  of  the  spare  room  and  there  she 
would  find  two  wax  candles  wrapt  in  paper,  and  that  those  were 
to  be  lighted  and  burned.  She  said  that  after  she  came  to  live  in 
London  she  wanted  to  give  a  party;  her  mother  wished  everything 
to  be  very  nice,  and  went  out  and  bought  candles  and  confection- 
er3%  and  set  out  a  table,  and  lighted  the  room  quite  splendidly, 
and  called  her  to  come  and  see  it  when  all  was  prepared.  She 
was  angry;  she  said  people  would  say  she  was  extravagant,  and 
would  ruin  her  husband.  She  took  away  two  of  the  candles  and 
some  of  the  cakes.  Her  mother  was  hurt  and  began  to  weep.  She 
was  pained  at  once  at  what  she  had  done;  she  tried  to  comfort 
her,  and  was  dreadfully  sorry.  She  took  the  candles  and  wrapped 
them  up,  and  put  them  where  they  could  be  easily  found.  We 
found  them  and  lighted  them,  and  did  as  she  desired. 

'G.  E.  J.' 

What  a  strange,  beautiful,  sublime  and  almost  terrible  little 
action;  silently  resolved  on,  and  kept  silent  from  all  the  earth  for 
perhaps  twenty-four  years!  I  never  heard  a  whisper  of  it,  and 
yet  see  it  to  be"  true.  The  visit  must  have  been  about  1837;  I  re- 
member the  soiree  right  well;  the  resolution,  bright  as  with 
heavenly  tears  and  lightiiing,  was  probably  formed  on  her  mother's 
death,  February  1842.— T.  C. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  was  buried  by  the  side  of  her  father,  in  the  choir 
of  Haddington  Church.  These  words  follow  on  the  tombstone 
after  her  father's  name : — 

HERE   LIKEWISE   NOW  RESTS 

JANE   WELSH  CARLYLE, 

Spouse  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  Chelsea,  London. 

SHE  WAS     born  at     HADDINGTON,    14TT1  JULY,    1801,   ONLY     DAUGHTER 

OF  THE   ABOVE  JOHN   WELSH,    AND   OF  GRACE  WELSH,    CAPLEGILL, 

DUMFRIESSHIRE,    HIS   WIFE.       IN   HEE  BRIGHT  EXISTENCE  SHE 

HAD   MORE   SORROWS   THAN   ARE   COMMON;    BUT   ALSO   A   SOFT 

INVINCIBILITY,    A   CLEARNESS    OF   DISCERNMENT,    AND   A    NOBLE 

LOYALTY   OF   HEART,   WHICH   ARE    RARE.      FOR   FORTY   YEARS   SHE 

WAS  THE  TRUE   AND   EVEB-LO\aNG   HELPMATE  OF  HER  HUSBAND, 

AND  BY  ACT  AND  WORD    UNWEARIEDLY  FORWARDED    HIM,    AS     NOl^ 

ELSE  COULD,    IN   ALL    OF  WORTHY,   THAT    HE     DID   OR  ATTEMPTED. 

SHE     DIED    AT     LONDON,   SI^T  APRIL,    186G;     SUDDENLY     SNATCHED 

AWAY    FROM     HIM,   AND  THE     LIGHT    OF  HIS     LIFE,   AS    IF    GONE    OUT. 

>  The  housekeeper  in  Cheyne  Row. 


INDEX. 


Addiscombe,  i.  159 

Ainsley,  Wm.,  i.  267 

Airlie,  Lady,  ii.  63,  66,  80,  369,  379,  381 

Aitken,  David,  i.  71 ;  ii.  85  et  seq.,  285, 
289 

Aitken,  James,  ii.  100,  263,  286,  293 

Aitken,  Margaret,  i.  93  note 

Aitken,  Mrs.  Jane,  i.  68;  ii.  20,  23,  279, 
and  see  Letters 

Aitken,  Sam.,  i.  150 

Albert,  Prince,  ii.  'J4 

Alexander,  Miss,  i.  263 

Alfred,  Prince,  ii.  96 

Allan,  Miss,  i.  121 

Alsdorf,  Baron  von,  i.  62 

Anderson,  Mrs.,  ii.  49 

Annandale,  i.  14  et  seq.,  19,  44,  75,  116 

Anstey,  T.  Chisholm,  i.  61 

Anstruther,  Mrs.,  ii.  186  et  seq. 

Antoni,  Countess  Clementina  Degli,  1. 
16,  21  note,  23,  92  7wte ;  ii.  298 

Argyll,  Duke  of,  i.  2&4 

Arnot,  i.  14  et  seq. 

Ashburton,  Lady  (nee  Mackenzie),  ii. 
120  note,  131,  140, 165, 167, 184, 188,  205 
et  seq.,  229,  231,  240,  243,  248,  255  note, 
282  et  seq. 

Ashburton,  Lady  (ne'e  Montague),  i. 
118.  124,  206  et  seq.,  231  et  seq.,  236, 
241  note,  243,  245,  252  et  seq.,  280,  284, 
304,  et  seq.,  327;  ii.  19,  et  seq.,  22,  24, 
28,  40,  52  et  seq.,  58,  205 

Ashburton,  Lord,  i.  170,  206,  231,  2.33, 
236,  241  note,  245,  269,  272  note,  313. 
319,  327;  ii.  3,  18,  22,  28  et  seq.,  94,  120 
note,  132,  162,'164.  167, 184  et  seq.,  206 

Ashley,  Lord,  i.  124,  137 

Ashurst,  Miss.    See  Venturi,  Mme. 

Ashurst,  Mr.,  li.  287 

Austin.  James,  ii.  234,  and  see  Let- 
ters 

Austin,  Jessie,  ii.  15 

Austin,  Margaret,  ii.  15 

Austin,  Miss,  i.  108,  322 

Austin,  Mrs.  Mary,  i.  2,  i,  S  et  seq.,  16, 
82,  147.  222,  289;  ii.  101.  129,  136,  138, 
224,  and  see  Letters 

Austin,  Robert,  ii.  96,  98 

Ayr,  i.  67 

Badams,  Mrs.,  i.  9 
Baillie,  Matthew,  i.  257 
Baius,  the,  ii.  153,  155  et  seq. 
Baird,  Agnes,  ii.  286 


Baird,  Sir  David,  11.  64 

Ballantyne,  i.  316;  ii.  25 

Bamford.  Samuel,  i.  109 

Baring,  Emily,  i.  291 ;  ii.  92 

Baring,  Frederick,  ii.  92 

Baring,  Lady  Harriet.   See  Ashburton, 

Lady 
Baring,  Louisa,  ii.  92,  131 
Baring,  Miss,  ii.  77.  89,  91  et  seq.,  94,  162 
Baring,  Mr.    See  Ashburton,  JLord 
Baring,  Mrs.  Frederick,  ii.  91 
Barker,  Robert,  i.  57 
Barlow,  Mr.,  ii.  62,  87 
I  Barnes,  Miss,  ii.  106,  and  see  Letters 
Barnes,  Mr.,  ii.  125,  127,  129.  131.  140  et 

sea.,  150,  162  note.  199.  204,  206,  208  et 

seq.,  212.  et  seq.,  215,   222,  and  see 

Letters 
Barrington.  Lady  Caroline,  li.  98 
Barton,  Charles,  i.  119  et  seq. 
Bath,  Lady  Dowager,  ii.  18  note 
Bath.  Lord,  i.  250  et  seq. 
Beattie.  "Sandy,"  i.  83 
Becker,  i.  159 
Beck,  3Irs.,  ii.  240 
Bennett,  i.  320  et  seq 
Bernays.  the,  i.  312 
Biffin.  Miss,  ii.  212 
Binnie.  Mrs.,  ii.  5.3,  63,  112 
Blackadder,  Sandy,  i.  181  note 
Blackett,  ii.  202 
Blackett,  Mrs.,  ii.  203 
Blunt.  JiUia.  ii.  216,  223,  253 
Bogue.  Adam,  i.  297 
Btilte,  Miss.  i.  135, 179  note,  305,  233,  240, 

251  note,  334 
Botkin,  Mr.,  ii.  84  et  seq. 
Braid,  Mr.,  ii.  7 

Braid,  Mrs.,  ii.  7,  and  see  Letters 
Briggs,  Mr.,  ii.  240 
Bright,  John,  i.  236 
Broke,  Lady  de  Capel,  ii.  31 
Bromley,  Miss,  ii,  165, 167, 178  note,  179 

et  seq.,  200,  208,  222  et  seq.,  252,  263. 

265,  268  et  seq.,  28;J  et  seq.,  291,  296 
Bront<i,  Charlotte  ((Mrrer  Bell),  i.  244 
Brookfield,  i.  304  et  seq.,  3:'M,  332;  ii.  180 
Brougham,  Lord.  i.  173 
Brown.  Dr.  Samuel,  ii.  50,  51 
Browning,  i.  193.  334;  ii.  163 
Brown.  Jas.,  i.  263 
Brown,  John,  i.  254  note 
Brown,  Miss,  ii.  63 
Buchan,  Peter,  1.  127  note 


304 


INDEX. 


Buller,  Arthur,  i.  88 

Ruller,  B.,  i.  5,  68,  88  et  seq.,  168 

Buller,  Chas.,  Sr.,  i.  89  et  seq.,  96,  99  et 

seq.,  103  et  seq.,  138, 197,  222,  233,  23fi; 

ii.  29,  72  note 
Buller,  Mrs.,  i.  2, 13.  37,61,  85,  89  et  seq., 

99,  102  et  seq.,  138.  186,  239.  247 
Buller,  Rev.  Reginald,  i.  85,  88,  90  et 

seq.,  93,  95,  97,  99  et  seq.,  102,  104 
Bulwer.  Lady,  ii.  63  note 
Bulwer,  Lytton,  i.  110,  310 
Bunsen.  George,  i.  301, 304 
Bunsen,  Jlme.,  i.  301 
Bums,  Col.,  i.  303 
Burton,  i.  76 
Butler,  Mrs.  Pierce,  i.  39 
Buxton.  Sir  Fowell,  i.  170 
Byng,  Hon.  ("Poodle"),  i.  97,  101  et 

.sfl.j.,  250  et  seq. 
Byng.  Lady  Agnes,  i.  97,  101 
Byrou.  Lord,  i.  76;  ii.  28,  243 

Calthorpe,  Lord,  i.  96 

Calvert,  Martha,  i.  63 

Camden,  Marquis  of,  ii.  202 

Cameron,  Mrs.,  ii.  88  et  seq. 

Candlish,  Dr.,  ii.  200 

Candlish,  Rev.,  i.  144 

Carleton,  the  novelist,  i.  214 

Carlyle,  Alielc,  8,  44,  71,  98  note,  161, 

163.  105,  2U0  7iote,  331 
Carlyle,  Jane,  daughter  of  Alick,  i.  8 

et  seq. 
Carlyle,  Jas.,  i.  83.  270 
Carlyle,  John,  i.  8;  33.  .59,  109,  121,  147, 

149  et  seq.,  153,  192  et  seq.,  195  et  seq., 

224,  225  note,  227  et  seq.,  242,  273,  280, 

336;  ii.  5  et  seq.,  19  et  seq.,  41, 108, 118, 

124  et  seq.,  221.  228,  260,  2B7 
Carlyle,  Mrs.    See  Letters 
Carlyle,  Phoebe,  ii.  7  et  seq 
Carlyle,  T.    See  Letters 
Carmarthen,  i.  120 
Carruthers,  Mrs.,  1.  119  7wte 
Cartwright,  Squire,  i.  105 
Catchpool,  Mr.,  ii.  35 
Cavaignac,  Godefroi,  i.  35,  .~/J  et  seq., 

63,  80,  98  7l0te,  120.  142,  160,   166,  175, 

262 
Chad  wick,  Mrs.,  i.  117 
Chalmers,  Dr.,  i.  113,  292,  232,  ai2,  290, 

296  et  seq.,  335;  ii.  15,  17  et  seq. 
Chapman  &  Hall,  i.  78,  282,  332;  ii.  34, 

126  297  299 
Charteris,  Mr.,  267 
Chelsea,  i.  3.  6,  9,  10  et  seq.,  13,  29,  31, 

35,  45,  53,  60,  66,  71,  84  et  seq.,  89,  92, 

98,  100 
Chorley,  H.  F.,  i.  51  et  seq.,  890 
Chorley,  Phoebe,  1.  51,  252 
Christie,  Dr.,  i.  217,  224 
Christison,  Dr.,  ii.  190 
Christison,  Robert,  ii.  190 
Chrystal,  Mrs.  Jeannie,  i.  268;  ii.  11 
Clare,  Lady,  i.  149 
Clark  (valet),  i.  127, 131  et  seq. 
Clark,  Sir  Jarces,  i.  58,  236 
Clerk.  John  (Lord  Eldm),  i.  331 


Cleveland,  Col.,  1. 179 

Cleveland.  Duke  of,  i.  179 

Clough,  Mr.,  i.  319 

Clough,  Mrs.,  i.  70 

Cochrane,  Mr.,  i.  326  note 

Cochrane,  Mrs.,  i.  228 

Colburn,  i.  236 

Cole,  Henry,  i.  142, 149 

Cole,  Mrs.  Henry,  i.  22,  27 

Colenso,  Bishop,  ii.  197 

Coleridge,  i.  281,  335  note 

Collier,  Payne,  i.  196,  198 

Collins,  Wilkie,  ii.  283 

Cook,  Anne,  i.  14, 19,  23,  24,  28  et  seq., 

34.  105  note,  192 
Cooke,  George,  ii.  86  et  seq.,  90, 234, 248, 

255,  261,  and  see  Letters 
Cooke,  J.  G.,  ii.  105  note,  and  see  Let- 
ters 
Cooper,  i.  332 
Corrie,  Mrs.,  ii.  13 
Corson,  Mr.,  ii.  284 
Coupland,  Dr.,  ii.  103 
Cowley,  Lord,  ii.  148 
Craigcrook,  i.  10,  75  note 
Craigenputtock,  i.  2  et  seq.,  15,  17,  49, 

217 
Craik,  Mary,  ii.  218,  224  et  seq. 
Craik,  Mr.,  i.  19,  22, 196  et  seq.,  236,268, 

203.  296,  301;  ii.  58,  266,  288 
Craven,  Mrs.,  ii.  211 
Crawfurd,  John,  i.  5,  57 
Crawfurd,  Mrs.,  i.  57 
Cremorne  Garden,  ii.  27 
C^richtons,  the,  i.  43 
Cromwell,  Oliver,  i.  67,  83,  105, 154, 160, 

170,  185  et  seq.,  190,  206,  235,  249;  ii.  71 
Cunningham,  Allan,  i.  2, 18,  27  et  seq., 

33,  222,  297 
Cunningham,  George,  i.  268 
Cunningham,  William,  i.  109 
Cupar  Fife,  i.  10 
Curries,  i.  298 

Cushman,  Charlotte,  ii.  178 
Cuttikins,  i.  120  et  seq. 

Dabton,  i.  43 
Dalwigf  i.  318  et  .seq. 
Dante,  i.  79,  224,  22«,  230,  234 
Darby,  Miss,  i.  292,  299 
Darley,  George,  i.  77,  143,  237 
Darwin,  i.  2,  57,  59,  62,  70,  125,  137,  146, 

157,  180.  238  et  seq.,  298,  332  e<  seg. ; 

ii.  119  et  seq 
Davenport,  Mr.,  ii.  178  note 
Davidson,  Mrs.  David,  ii.  62 
Davies,  Rev.  Llewelyn,  i.  319 
De  Kock,  Paul,  i.  108  et  seq. 
Delane,  Mr.,  i.  282, 
Dempster,  Miss,  ii.  248,  251 
De  Musset,  ii.  286 

De  Redcliffe,  Lord  Stratford,  it  277 
Desmoulins,  Camile,  i.  5  et  seq. 
De  Stael,  Mme.,  i.  326 
Devonshire,  Duke  of,  i.  196 
Dickens,  Chas.,  i.  195, 228,  232  note,  821, 

.33.1;  ii.  197,  28d 
Dickens,  Mrs.,  1.  277 


INDEX. 


806 


Dickson,  Frank,  I.  144 
DUberoglue,  i.  312,  326;  11.  168 
Dobie,  Rev.  Emeritus,  i.  106 
Dodds,  Wm.,  i.  159;  ii.  126 
Donald,  Mr.,  i.  331 
Donaldson,  Dr.,  i.  26;  ii.  44 
Donaldson,  Miss,  i.  224;  ii.  42,  59,  61  et 

seq..  74,  200 
Donaldson,  Miss  Eliza,  ii.  75 
Donaldsons,  the,  144,  147,  209  note,  255, 

264  et  seq.,  269:  ii.  44  et  seq.,  126 
Donaldson,  Willie,  i.  284 
Donne,  Mr.,  i.  326 
Donovan,  i.  2.57 

d'Orsay,  Count,  i.  172  et  seq.,  197,  222 
Douglas,  ii.  41 

Downshire,  Marquis  of,  ii.  148  et  seq. 
Doyle,  Lady,  ii.  181 
Duffy,  i.  213  et  seq.,  249,  257;  ii.  88,  and 

see  Letters 
Dumfries,  i.  6, 15  etseq.,  66,  108 
Dunbar,  Mr.,  ii.  151 
Duncan,  druggist,  i.  27 
Duncan,  Mrs.,  ii.  120,  247 
Dunlop,  Wm.,  ii.  72 
Dunn,  Mr.,  i.  16 
Diirer,  Albert,  i.  37 

East  Lothian,  i.  7,  91, 147, 191, 197, 203, 

287 
Ecclefechan,  i.  8 
Edgeworth,  i.  59 
Edmonton,  i.  13 
Edward,  Wm.,  i.  256 
Elder,  Smith  &,  ii.  299 
Eldin,  Lord.    See  Clerk,  John 
Eliot,  George.    See  Evans,  Miss 
Elise,  Mme.,  ii.  243.  246 
Elliot,  Fred.  ii.  1,  76,  292 
Elliot,  Miss,  i.  27 
Elliot  Mrs.,  i.  57 
Emerson.  R.  W.,  i.  58,  77,  141,  235,  243; 

ii.  70,  76 
Empson,  Mrs.,  i.  75 
Erskine,  T..  1.  148,  150  note,  315,  318, 

332,  339;  ii.  8,  13,  49,  240,  269,  285  et 

seq..  289 
Espinasse,  i.  243 
Euston,  Margaret,  1.  257 
Evans,  Miss.,  ii.  134 
Evans,  Miss  (George  Eliot),  ii.  295 
Ewart,  Mrs.,  ii.  239  et  seq.,  262,  278,281, 

284 
Eyre,  ii.  292 

FAiRiE,Mr.,  ii.  239 

Farrar,  Miss,  i.  250,  252,  294,  802,  304, 

317,  325.  320,  336 
Farrar,  Mrs.  294,  302,  326,  329,  336 
Fergus,  Elizabeth,  i.  20;  ii.  49 
Ferguses,  the,  i.  CO,  143,  270 
Fergus,  John,  i.  298 
Fergusson,Dr.,  i.  121  et  se3.,252;  ii.370 
Ferg'isson,  Mrs.,  ii.  199 
Fitzgerald,  Edward,  ii.  24  et  seq. 
Fleming,  Mr.,  i.  168  et  seq.,  203  et  seq., 

233 
Fletcher,  Mrs.,  i.  77,  286 


Forster,  John,  I.  68,  77  et  seq.,  103,  184 
note,  195,  222  et  seq..  282,  325;  ii.  142, 
222,  240,  244,  288,  290,  300,  and  see 

Forster,  Mrs.,  ii.  89, 165,  222 

Forster,  W.  E.,  i.  224  et  seq.,  255  et 

seq.,  279 
Fox,  Charles,  i.  172 
Foxton,  Mr.,  ii.  214,  268 
Franklin,  Lady,  ii.  272  et  seq. 
Franklin,  Sir  John,  ii.  272 
Freure,  ii.  269 
Froude,  J.  A.,  ii.  278,  298  et  seq. 

Gambardella,  i.  149, 199,  201,  241 

Garibaldi,  Leon,  ii.  172 

Gamier,  i.  19,  21,  140,  142, 144, 150 

Gaskell,  Mrs.,  i.  311  et  seq. 

Gibbon,  i.  114  note. 

Gibson,  Mr.,  i.  21,  25,  43,  307 

Gigner,  Mr.,  ii.  121 

Gilchrist,  Mrs.,  ii.  273,  280 

Gillespie,  Mr.,  ii.  48,  52 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  i.  165  note 

Glasgow,  i.  6  note 

Godb^,  Mrs.,  ii.  112,  207,  212 

Godwin,  ii.  268  note 

Goethe,  L  47  note,  100  note,  222,  336; 

ii.  76 
Goodrich,  Lord,  ii.  27 
Gordon,  Lady,  i.  195 
Gordon,  Sir  Alexander,  i.  195 
Grabame,  Mrs.    See  Veitch,  Agnes 
Graham,  Sir  James,  i.  163  note,  165, 

177 
Graham,  Wm.,  i.  143  note,  160 
Grant,  Mr.,  i.  21;  ii.  123 
Greig,  Mr.,  i.  283 
Grey,  Lord,  i.  233 
Griffiths,  i.  3-32 
Grisi,  i.  294 
Grove,  Mrs.,  i.  99 
Gully,  Dr.,  i.  310  et  seq. 
Gully,  Miss,  i.  312 
Gunter's,  i.  137,  317 
Guthrie,  Dr.,  ii.  50,  51  note 
"  Gwyn,  Nell,"  i.  198 

Hall  (Chapman  &  Hall),  I.  78;  Ii.  34 
Hall,  Mrs.,  i.  127 
Hamilton,  i\Iiss,  i.  312;  il.  49 
Hamilton,  Mr.,  i.  95 
Hamilton,  Mr.  (architect),  ii.  64 
Hamilton,  Mysie,  ii.  64  et  seq. 
Harcourt,  Col.,  ii  95 
Harcourt,  Wm.,  ii.  94  et  seq. 
Hawkes,  Mrs.,  i.  327;  ii.  83  et  seq.,  90, 

107 
Hawtrey,  Stephen,  ii.  292 
Hayward,  ii.  292 
Heather,   Sarah   (Sereetha),  1.   19   et 

si'ij..  24  et  seq.,  27 
Helps,  Arthur,  i.  70,  114,  123, 181 

1"j9,  314 
Herstmonceaux,  i.  12  note,  18 
Herzen.  i.  331  et  se^. 
Heywood,  James,  i.  135 
Hey  wood,  Mrs.,  i.  335  et  seq., SO. 


306 


INDEX. 


Hickson,  Mrs.,  1.  53 
Hiddlestone,  Jessie,  ii.  253,  261 
Hiddlestone,  John,  ii.  289 
Hiddlestone,  Margaret,  i.  86,  106,  13.5, 

145,207,209  &  note,  et  seg.,  282,287, 

306,  313,  316;  ii.  3,  20,  280 
Holcroft,  i.  205  note 
Holmes,  O.,  i.  242 
Hope,  David,  i.  255 
Hotten,  ii.  299 
Houghton,  Lord,  ii.  236, 
Howatson,  i.  343 

Howden,  Helen,  i.  271 ;  ii.  46  et  seq. 
Howden,  Miss,  i.  271 
Howden.  Mr.,  ii.  46,  61,  64 
Howitt,  Mary,  i.  109 
Hugo,  Victor,  i.  100  note,  108 
Hume,  David,  i.  59 
Hunter  &  Newman,  i.  135 
Huntdr,  John,  i.  9,  13,  19,  75  et  seq.,  159 

et  seq. 
Hunter,   Miss   Susan.     See    Sterling, 

Mrs. 
Hunter,  Mrs.,  ii.  260. 
Hunter,  Prof.,  i.  9 
Hunt,  Leigh,  i.  1,  10,  21  et  seq.,  37,  60 

note,  63,  65,  67,236;  ii.  94 
Hunt,  Mrs.,  i.  3,  7,  17,  22,  236 
Hutchison,  John,  ii.  5 
Hutchison,  Miss,  ii.  5 
Huxham,  Mrs.,  ii.  97 

Inglis,  Mr.,  1.  331 

Inglis,  Sir  R.,  i.  286 

Ireland,  Mr.,  i.  236,  313  et  seq. 

Irrin,  Mrs.,  i,  285 

Irving,  Edward,  i.  5  et  seq.,  53,  58, 157, 

263;  u.  37,  53  note,  113  note 
Irving,  Mrs.  Edward,  i.  67 
Irving,  Peg,  i.  63 
Ixworth,  i.  91  et  seq.,  96, 104 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  i.  10 

Jeffrey,  John,  i.  10  et  seq.,  75,  148;  ii. 
92  note 

Jeffrey,  Lord  Advocate,  i.  13,  64,  105 
note,  148,  172  et  seq.,  184;  ii.  92  7wte, 
225 

Jeffrys,  Mary,  ii.  63. 

Jerrold.  Douglas,  i.  195 

Jewsbury,  Mr.,  i.  311 

Jewsbury,  Miss  Geraldine,  i.  108  et  seq., 
131,  1.34,  163,  165  note,  183  et  seq.,  187, 
189,  199,  212,  222,  224,  226,  228,  237,  243 
etseq.,  273  et  seq.,  291  et  seq.,  294, 
296,  299,  311  etseq.,  334,  338;  ii.,  22, 
31,  35  et  seq.,  38  et  seq.,  55,  57,  78,  93, 
126,  131,  140,  153  et  seq.,  252  et  seq., 
258,  261,  272  et  seq.,  289,  294,  300 

Johnson,  Samuel,  i.  73 

Johnstone,  Hope,  ii.  4 

Johnston,  George,  1.  295 

Jones,  Bence,  ii.  103 

Jones,  Mr.,  i.  326 

Keevil,  RichAm),  L  66  note 
Kelty,  ii.  41 
Kenny,  Mr.,  1.  205 


Kenyon,  Mr.,  i.  334 
Kinglake,  Mr.,  i.  305 
Kingsley,  Charles,  i.  296;  Ii.  291 
Kirkpatrick,  Kitty,  i.  146 
Kleist,  Mr.,  i.  135 
Knolles,  i.  188 
Knox,  John,  i.  65,  257 

Lamb,  C,  i.  166,  note 

Lambert,  Mr.,  i.  113 

Lander,  Walter  Savage,  1.  888 

Landseer,  ii.  298 

Lausdowne,  Lord,  ii.  40 

Larkin,  Mr.,  ii.  59,  87,  89  etseq.,  131,  208 

et  seq.,  218,  220,  223 
Lawrence,  Mr.,  i.  234 
Lea,  Mr.,  i.  267  et  seq.:  ii.  46 
Leibnitz,  Baron  von,  li.  166 
Lemon,  Sir  Charles,  i.  124 
L'Espinasse,  Mle.,  i.  147 

Letters: — 
Mrs.  Carlyle  to— 

Aitken,  Mrs.,  i.  15,  109, 152, 159, 208, 
216,  247,  275,  285 

Austin,  James,  ii.  99 

Austin,  Mi-s.,  ii.  57,  76,  143,  170  et 
seq.,  184,  187,  194,  204,236,  246,  273 
et  seq. 

Barnes,  Mr.,  ii.  121 

Barnes.  Miss,  ii.  106,  108,  120,  149, 
158,  161 

Braid,  Mrs.,  ii.  7,  189,  200 

Carlyle,  John,  i.  340 

Carlyle,  Mrs.,  i.  3,  6,  9,  29,  44,  52,  64 
et  seq.,  71,  273 

Carlyle,  T.,  20  et  seq.,  55  et  seq.,  89 
et  seq.,  112, 116  et  seq.,  160  etseq., 
167,  178  et  seq.,  191  et  seq.,  211  et 
seq.,  224,  227  et  seq.,  241  et  seq., 
244,  249  et  seq.,  269  et  seq.,  282  et 
seq.,  289  et  seq.,  311,  316  etseq.; 
ii.  3  et  seq.,  8  et  seq.,  21,  25,  41  et 
seq.,  59  et  seq.,  82  etseq.,  110  et 
seq.,  125  et  seq..  1.30,  133  etseq.. 
139,  152  etseq.,  1G5,  169,  172,  174 
et  seq.,  179,  219  et  seq.,  223  etseq., 
252  et  .seq.,  258  et  seq.,  267  et  seq., 
286  etseq.,  204  et  seq. 

Cooke,  George,  ii.  110 

Cooke,  J.  G.,  ii.  102  et  seq.,  107,  160 

Duffy,  Chas.  Gavan,  i.  190 

Forster,  John,  i.  150,  167,  206,  227, 
237,  243,  245,  276,  278;  ii.  122,  236 

Nero,  i.  285 

Russell,  Dr.,  ii.  191 

Eussell,  Mrs.,  i.  110,  136,  170,  206, 
209,  280,  284,  287,  305,  313,  315;  ii. 
1,  18,  22,  24,  39,  54,  81,  100,  102, 
104,  114,  119,  128,  132,  138,  147,  150 
et  seq.,  156, 161  et  seq.,  166  etseq., 
173,  176,  178,  181,  186,  189, 199,  202, 
205,  213,  231  etseq.,  239,  241,  248, 
250,  266,  270  277,  280,  283 

Simmonds,  Mrs.,  ii.  215  et  seq. 

Sinclair,  Sir  George,  ii.  123 

SterUng,  John,  i.  11,  37,  45,  69,  76 
etseq.,  80,  111 


INDEX. 


m 


IjEtters: — 
Mrs.  Carlyle  to—  ,  „  ,„ 

Stirling,  Mrs.  (n6e  Hunter),  i.  9, 13, 

17,  73,  215,  21S,fi'?l,  294 
Welsh,  Helen,!.  31,  53,  108,  111,221, 

223;  ii.  15 
Welsh,  John,  i.  41.  115,  155,  309  et 

sea. 
Welsh,  Miss  Elizabeth,  ii.  273 
Welsh,  Miss  Grace,  ii.  196  et  seq., 

211.381 
Welsh,  Miss  Margaret,  i.  86;  u.  145, 

214 
Welsh,  Mrs.,  i.  35 
Welsh,  the  Misses,  ii.  220,  284 
Lewes,  G.  H.,  i.  246  note,  327 
Lewis,  Comewall.  i.  134 
Lewis,  Lady,  i.  169 
Lichfield,  i.  35 
Liddell,  Eliza,  ii.  Ill 
LiddeU,  Mr.,  ii.  110 
Liddle,  Mr.,  i.  181;ii.  49 
Liddle,  Mrs.  Major,  ii.  45,  49 
Lindsay,  Mrs.,  i.  282  et  seq. 
Llandough,  i.  117 
Locke,  John,  ii.  243 
Lockhart,  J.  G.,  i.  83, 142,  222 
Loft,  Capel,  i.  95 
Loft,  Mr  ,  i.  97,  105 
Londonderry,  Lord,  i.  101  et  seq. 
Lothian,  Marchioness  of,  ii.   162,  166, 

253,  268,  271,  2a3,  391.299 
Lothian,  Marquis  of,  ii.  166,  253,  268, 

271,  283,  291,  299 
Louis  Philippe,  i.  35,  79 
Louis  Quinze,  i.  51 
Lowe,  Mr.,  ii.  395 
Lowe,  Robert,  i.  282;  u.  40,  78 

Luther.  Martin,  i.  83,  141 ,  ii.  123 

MACAraE,  Robert,  i.  137 

Macaulay,  Lord,  i.  314,  334 

McCall,  John,  i.  14 

MacDiarmid,  i.  303 

MacDonald,  Grace,  i.  20,  299 

MacEnnery,  Dr.,  i.  242 

McGeorge,  Mr.,  ii.  286  et  seq. 

MacGowan,  Mrs.,  ii.  240 

Mackenzie,  Hon.  Jas.  Stewart,  ii.  120 

note 
Macintosh,  Sir  James,  i.  5i  7iote,  125 
Macmillan,  Mr.,  ii.  2.->5  et  seq.,  261,  389 
Macmillan,  Mrs.,  ii.  2.56  et  seq. 
Macqueen,  John,  i.  2,  4,  212 

Macready,  Miss.  i.  190,  336    

Macready,  Mr.  and  Mrs,,  i.  109, 141, 1.50, 

195  et  seq.,  198,  200,  291,  319  note,  320, 

325,  a36 
McTurk,  i.  3.34;  ii.  105 
Mainhill,  i.  8 
Malcolm.  Mrs.,  ii.  95 
Manchester,  Duke  of,  1.  214 
Manderston,  Mrs.,  i.  4 
Manfredi,  i.  298  et  seq. 
Mantel,  Mr.,  ii.  108 
Marcet,  Mme..  i.  59 
Marochetti,  ii.  296 


Marryat,  i.  8 

Marshall,  Dr.,  i.  56  et  seq.,  59  et  seq., 

Marshalls,  the,  i.  59 

Marsh,  Mrs.,  i.  39 

Martineau,  Harriet,  i.  39,  41,  70,  222, 

2-38  et  seq.,  274;  ii.  116  note 
Martineau,  Jas.,  i.  164 
Mason,  Mr.,  ii.  291 
Masson,  Mr.,  i.  252,  289,  291,  336 
Mathew,  Father,  i.  128  et  seq.,  140  et 

.seq. 
Maupertius,  ii.  166 
Maurice,  Mrs.,  i.  196 
Maurice,  Rev.,  i.  14, 39, 135, 137, 196,  318; 
ii.  216 

Maxwell,  "Wall,"  i.  98  note 

Maynard,  Mrs.,  i.  299 

Mazzini.  i.  79,  120,  121  et  .'seq.,  131,  13.3, 
139, 143etseg.,  145,  154,  160,  163  note, 
165,  168,  178,  180  note.  193.  202,  222, 
234  et  seq.,  269  note.  282.  293  et  seq., 
326  et  seq.,  332  et  seq.,  :;3S,  340;  ii.  31 
66  note,  82,  111,  120,  172,261 

Mildmay,  Bingham,  i.  250;  ii.  95 

Mildmay,  Mr.  H.  St.  J.,  i.  259:  ii.  95 

Mildmay,  Mrs.  H.  St.  J.,  i.  259;  ii.  91 
et  seq.,  95 

Miles,  Eliza,  i.  4.  6  et  seq.,  28 

Miles,  of  Miles  &  Edwards,  i.  4,  6 

Mill,  John,  i.  2  et  seq.,  8  note.  21,  27,  33, 
77.  80,  124  et  seq..  142.  191  note,  282, 
297;  ii.  80  note,  286  note,  295  note 

Mills,  IMary,  i.  84,  175  and  note,  141,  145 
et  seq.,  170  et  seq.,  207,  210  and  note, 
882,  287,  305,  313,  315;  ii.  3,  20 

Milman,  i.  222 

Milnes,  i.  123  et  seq.,  250,  282;  ii.  58,  236 

Milne,  Sir  David,  i.  321  note 

Milton,  John,  ii.  243 

Mitchell,  Helen,  i.  57.  59  et  seq.,  68,  70 
et  seq.,  110  et  seq.,  113,  120  et  seq.,  125 
et  seq.,  133,  137  et  seq.,  15S  et  seq., 
181,  185,  192  et  seq.,  196  et  seq.,  215  et 
seq.,  247  et  seq. 

Mitchell,  John.  i.  213  et  seq. 

Mitford,  M.  R.,  Miss,  i.  2:36 

Molesworth,  Sir  W.,  i.  231 

Montague,  Basil,!!.  3,  23.  205  note 

Montague,  Lady  Harriet.  See  Ash- 
burton,  Lady 

Montgomery,  Mss,  i.  276 

Moore,  Thomas,  i.  -55 

Morgan,  Mr.,  i.  117,  314,  319,  330  ef  seq., 
341  et  seq. 

Morrison,  Mr.,  ii.  262 

Mudie,  Elizabeth,  i.  130  et  seq.,  136  et 
seq.,  151 

Mudie,  Juliet,  i.  130  note,  181,  151 

Miiller,  ii.  240 

Mulock,  Miss,  i.  277,  279,  346  note 

Murrough  (Morrah),  i.  120  et  seq. 

Napoleon,  i.  12,  49  note 

Nero.    See  Letters 

Neuberg,  Mr.,  i.  251,  UO;  25,  89,  135  et 

seq. 
Newman  (Hunter  &  Newman),  i.  135 


308 


INDEX, 


Newnham.  Mrs.,  H.  80,  83 
Newton,  Mrs.,  i.  226,  319 
Newton,  Nodes,  i.  226 
Nickison,  i.  149 
Nicol,  Dr..  i.  253 
Nimmo,  Peter,  i.  187  note 
Nixon,  Mrs.,  i.  270 
Norton,  Mrs.,  i.  206 

O'CoNNBLL,  i.  13,  59,  80,  213  et  seq. 

Ogilvie,  Mr.,  i.  93 

Oliphant,  Mrs.,  ii.  171,  196  et  seq.,  202, 

290,  292,  29S  et  seq. 
Otley  (Saunders  &  Otley),  L  61 
Owen,  Prof.,  il.  210 
Owen,  Robt.,  i.  140 
Owlton,  Mr.,  ii.  18 

Pagets,  the,  i.  97, 101 
Paterson,  Capt.,  ii.  49 
Paulet,  }dr.,  i.  18.5  et  seq.,  188,  191,  193 

et  seq.;  ii.  36,  50 
Paulet,  Mrs.,  i.  163, 165  et  seq.,  178,  184, 

187,  189,  191,   194.  224,  226  note,  244, 

255,  273;  ii.  253,  261 
Paul,  Jean,  ii.  76 
Pearson,  i.  122,  124,  138  et  seq. 
Peel,  Sir  Robt.,  i.  5,  222,  288 
Penn,  Wm.,  1.  279 
Penzance,  i.  76 
Pepoli,  Count  de,  i.  IG,  19, 21  et  seq.,  26, 

30,  57,  60,  298  et  seq. 
Pepoli,  Elizabetii,  i.  103,  180,  277,  298  et 

seq.;  ii.  103 
Perrot,  James  Steplien,  i.  14 
Pigot,  Mr.,  i.  176  et  seq. 
Piper,  Mr.,  i.  327  et  seq.,  342  et  seq.;  ii. 

78 
Piper,  Mrs.,  i.  2 '5,  230,  2.3.5,  327,  341 
Plattnauer  ('  Gluder'),  i.  141  et  seq.,  168 

et  seq.,  327  note  ;  ii.  36 
Pope,  ii.  158,  243 
Power  (an  Irish  actor),  i.  150 
Praslin,  Duchess  de,  ii.  29 
Praslin,  Duke  de,  i.  229 
Price.  Mr.,  i.  305 
Pringle,  Mrs.,  ii.  18,  20.  79,  S2.QSetseq., 

97  et  seq.,  101  et  seq.,  105  et  seq.,  243 
Prior,  Blrs.,  i.  121  etseq.,  296 
Pritchard,  Dr.,  ii.  262 

QuAiN,  Dr.,  ii.  188,  190,  206,  210,  213,  256 
et  seq.,  266,  281  et  seq. 

Rawlinson.  Col.,  i.  304  ef  .seg. 
Redwood,  Charles  H.,  i.  104,  151,  295 
Rcichenbach,  Count,  i.  289,  294,  318  et 

seq.,  326,  a32,  338;  ii.  267,  292,  296 
Reicnenbach,  Mme.,  ii.  267 
Reid,  Dr.,  ii.  59  note 
Rennie,  George,  i.  4,  16,  57 
Richardsons,  the,  i.  268 
Rich,  Mrs.,  i.  57,  59,  203 
Richter,  Jean  Paul,  i.  208 
Ristori,  Mme.,  ii.  89 
Ritchie,  Dr.,  i.  114  note,  208 
Robertson,  i.  63, 144, 149, 197e<setf.,  263, 

266 


Robespierre,  i.  134, 177,  827 

Roebuck,  i.  5 

Rogers,  i.  32,  222,  224 

Rogers,  Mss.  i.  123 

Ronca,  ii.  17  et  seq.,  22 

Roscoe,  Mr.,  i.  35 

Ross,  Mr.,  ii.  147 

Ross,  Mrs.    See  Sterling,  Kate. 

Rovston,  Mi-s.,  ii.  89 

Ruskin,  John,  ii.  40,  270,  284. 

Russell,  Dr.,  i.  81,  86. 158,  306;  ii.  20,  53, 
57,  100,  102,  114,  170  et  seq.,  173,  199, 
224,  228  et  seq.,  231  et  seq.,  249,  252, 
262,  2G4,  266,  277  et  seq.,  284,  and  see 
Letters 

Russell,  Lady  WilUam,  i.  302;  ii.  12-1, 
277 

Russell,  Mrs.  Dr.,  i.  106,  141.  145  et  seq  ; 
ii.  53  et  seq.,  98.  130.  1.38,  167.  169.  172, 
195,  224,  237.  274.  and  see  Letters 

Rutherford,  i.  '.'63 

Ryde,  i.  126  et  seq. 

Saffi,  i.  331  et  seq.,  3.33,  338 
Sand,  George,  i.  90.  124,  2;J4;  ii.  30 
Sandv.ich,  Lady,  ii.  27,  72,  77  etseq., 

95,  127,  146,  157,  162  et  seq. 
Saunders,  i.  202 
Saunders  &  Otley.  i.  61 
Scawin,  Mrs.  ii.  114 
Schiller,  i.  336 
Scotsbrig,  i.  3,  20,  28,  5.5,  60,  64,  66,  71, 

84,  108 
Scott,  Rev.  A.,  i.  57,  203 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  i.  61,  222,  257;  ii.  243 
Shakspeare,  i.  228 
Shelley,  i.  37 
Shei-iff,  3Irs.,  i.  258 

Shuttleworth,  Kay.,  i.  123  etseq.;  ii.21 
Siddons,  Mr.s.,  i.  119  note 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  i.  221 
Silvester,  ii.  113,  126,  132,  268,  269,  278, 

288,  300 
Simmonds,  Mrs.,  ii.  106,  and  see  Let- 
ters 
Simpson,  Dr.,  ii.  63  et  seq. 
Sinclair,  Miss.  ii.  123 
Sinclair,  Sir  George,  ii.  124  et  seq.,  126, 

128.  and  see  Letters 
Sketchley,  Mrs.,  i.  317 
Skinner,  Miss.  i.  281 
Small,  Bettv,  ii.  296  note 
Smith  &  Elder,  ii.  299 
Smith,  Dr.  Angus,  i.  311  et  seq. 
Smith.  Miss  MadeHne,  ii.  63  et  seq. 
Southam,  Mrs.,  ii.  242 
Southern,  Mrs.,  ii.  113 
Spedding,  James,  i.  14.  39.  196,  234 
Spedding.  Thomas,  i.  2.34:  ii.  267 
Spottiswoode,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  ii.  298  et 

seq. 
Sprague.  Elizabeth,  i.  248  note,  249, 

290  et  seq. 
Stanley,  Lady.  i.  336:  ii.  112,  126,  130, 

137,  171.  264.  283 
Stanley,  Lord,  i.  142,  222;  ii.  129,  283 
Stanley,  Maud,  ii.  134 
Stansfield,  i.  195 


INDEX. 


Stephen,  1. 109;  11.  3 

Sterling,  Capt.  Anthony,  i.  225  et  seq., 
2-28,  242,  248,  251,  294,  296,  318  et  seq., 
336,  338.  340 

Sterling,  Col.,  ii.  24 

Sterling,  Edward,  i.  21,  109,  113,  115  et 
seq.,  119,  121,  126  note,  127,  133,  137, 
155,  205.  225;  ii.  68 

Sterling.  Kate,  i.  318  et  seq. ;  ii.  15,  147 

Sterling,  Lotta.  ii.  147 

Sterling,  Mrs.,  i.  18,  22,  27,  30  et  seq.,  57 

Sterling,  Rev.  John,  i.  11  et  seq.,  16  et 
seq.,  21  et  seq.,  27  et  seq.,  33,  37,  58, 
76,  123,  127,  135,  150,  202,  and  see  Let- 
ters 

Sterling.  Mrs.  (nee  Hunter),  i.  9,  et  seq., 
13,  17,  34.  148,  154,  271;  ii.  49,  52,  293, 
and  see  Letters 

Stoddart,  Bess,  55;  ii.  95  note, 

Storey,  Mr.,  i.  189 

Strachey,  Mr.,  i.  196 

Strachev,  Mrs.,  i.  154 

Strickland,  Miss,  i.  236 

Stuart.  Lord  Dudley,  i.  144 

Sue,  Eugene,  1.  179 

Swan,  Peter,  ii.  50 

Swan,  William,  ii.  49,  69 

Swift,  1.  245 

Swindon,  i. 

Sykes,  Col.,  i.  336 

Taglioni,  i.  180  note 

Tait,  Mr.,  ii.  12,  25  ei  seq. 

Talbot,  Miss,  ii.  299 

Taylor,  Henry,  1.  14,  40,  170,  235 

Tavlor,  Herbert,  ii.  286 

Taylor,  Mrs.,  i.  80;  ii.  290 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  i.  Ill,  195  et  seq.,  199 

Terrot,  Bishop,  ii.  8,  45,  63 

Terrot,  Dr.  C.  H.,  i.  204;  ii.  172 

Teufelsdrockh,  i.  4 

Thackeray,  W.  M.,  87,  89,  222,  304  et 

seq.,  .308 
Thomson,  Jack,  i.  2,  4 
Thorbum,  Mrs.,  i.  335 
Thomhill,  1.  85 
Titian,  i.  331 
Todd,  Mrs.,  i.  310 
Tourguenefif,  ii.  84  et  seq, 
Trelawny,  Mr.,  i.  294 
Trench,  Archbishop,  i.  234 
Trevelyans,  the,  ii.  167,  248 
Trimnell,  ii.  296 
Trollope,  Anthony,  ii.  277 
TroUope,  Mrs.,  i.  167 
Iroston,  i.  89,  93,  96,  98,  100, 105 
Tulloch,  Miss,  ii.  292 
Tiilloch,  Principal,  ii.  292,  298  et  seq. 
Turner,  Jos.,  ii.  273 
Turner,  Mr.,  ii.  260 
Twisleton,  Hon.  Edward,  ii.  163,  222 
Twisleton.  Mrs.,  ii.  103  et  seq. 
Tj-ndall,  Mr.,  u.  286, 288  et  seq.,  291,  294, 

296  et  tea. 


Varnhaqen,  1. 135,  222 

Vauxhall,  i.  133 

Veitch,  Agnes,  ii.  278 

Venturi,  Mme.,  ii.  261  et  seq,,  286,  290, 

293 
Verey's,  i.  325  et  seq. 
Viaris,  Mme..  ii.  68 
Von  Glehen,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  1 109 

Wain,  Mr.,  ii.  4 

Waldegrave,  Lady,  i.  252,  297 

Wales,  Prince  of,  ii  198 

Wales,  Princess  of,  ii.  198 

Warren,  Mrs.,  ii.  246,  262  et  seq.,  267, 

280,  284,  288,  294,  301 
Waterton.  i.  109 
Watkins,  Mr.,  ii.  265 
Watson,  Mrs.,  i.  271 
Watts,  the,  i.  ^3 
Waugh.  Rev.  Dr.,  i.  82,  97  note 
Weber,  Dr.,  i.  3i6 
Wedgwood,  Mr.,  i.  2,  59.  957,  160  et 

seq. 
Wedgwood,  Mrs.,  158,  286 
Welsh,  Alick,  ii.  14  et  seq., 
Welsh,  Elizabeth,  ii.  23,  42,  and  see 

Letters 
Welsh,  Grace,  ii.  23  note,  233,  and  see 

Welsh,  Helen,  i.  31,  82,  86  note,  87,  210, 
218,  224;  ii.  19,  23,  and  see  Letters. 

Welsh,  Jackie,  ii,  190,  201.  214,  •>77 
note. 

Welsh,  John,  i.  31.  81  et  seq.,  84,  80 
note,  177,  306,    ii.  14, 15,  82, 80  and  see 

T  P  'PT  P"  R  ^ 

Welsh,  Maggie,  i.  49,  218;  ii.  210,  218 
et  seq.,  286,  and  see  Letters 

Welsh,  Mrs.,  i.  U,  28,  et  seq.,  34  etseq., 
44,  84  et  seq.;  ii.  80,  280,  and  see  Let- 
ters 

Welsh,  Mrs.  Geo.,  i.  271;  ii.  155, 198 

Welsh,  Rev.  Walter,  i.  149  7iote,  210  et 
seq.,  2.55,  260  et  seq. 

Welsh,  Robert,  ii.  198  note,  285 

Welsh,  the  Misses.    See  Letters 

Werner,  Zeehariah,  i.  153,  note;  ii.  68 

Westmoreland,  Earl  of,  i.  119 

White,  Mr.,  ii.  76 

White,  Mrs.,  i.  .302 

William  IV.,  i.  26  note 

William.s,  ii.  1.39 

Willis,  Dr.,  i.  31 

Wilson,  Miss,  i.  38  et  seq.,  59,  316,  319 

Wilson,  Tom,  i.  14.  16,  41,  59 

Wilton,  Lady,  i.  252 

Winchester,  Bishop  of,  i.  305 

Winyard,  Mrs.,  i.  240 

Woolner,  ii.,  222,  250  et  seq. 

Wordsworth,  i.  3 

Worthington,  Dr.,  i.  78  et  seq. 

Wrightson,  i.  137  et  seq. 

Wynne,  Miss,  i.  243,  257,  282,  296,  302: 
ii.  ISl,  298  et  seq. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE'S  WORKS 

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A  HISTORY  OF  THE  FIRST  FORTY  YEARS  OF  HIS 
LIFE,  1795-1835.  By  James  Anthony  Froude,  M.A. 
With  Portraits  and  Illustrations.  2  vols,  in  one,  12mo, 
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It  is  a  marvellously  interesting  work. — Boston  Evening  Transa-ipt. 

It  is  of  the  deepest  interest  and  most  profitable  reading,  and  it  dis- 
closes the  author  of  "  Sartor  Resartus  "  as  he  never  appeared  to  either 
friend  or  enemy. — Detroit  Free  Press,  Michigan. 

Mr.  Froude  has  prepared  a  true  and  straightforward  story  of  Carlyle's 
life,  and  in  interest  and  importance  it  will  stand  next  to  such  biographies 
as  Trevelyan's  "Life  of  Macaulay  "  and  Lockhart's  "Scott." — CalverVz 
Magazine,  N.  Y. 

The  work  of  the  moment  is  certahily  the  first  two  volumes  of  Froude's 
life  of  Carlyle,  which  deal  with  the  first  forty  years  of  the  philosopher's 
life. — Literary  World,  Boston. 

Froude's  work  is  one  that  every  student  of  English  Literature  must 
possess. — N'.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

Mr.  Froude  has  handled  his  subject  with  great  spirit  and  in  his  usual 
masterly  style.  Letters  by  Carlyle  and  extracts  from  his  note-book  are 
freely  interspersed  throughout  the  volume.  After  reading  them  one  feels 
strangely  familiar,  more  at  ease,  as  it  were,  with  the  dyspeptic  old  man 
whose  trenchant  pen  has  left  such  a  marked  impression  on  the  literature 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  From  beginning  to  end  the  book  is  thoroughly 
interesting. — Sunday  Press,  Albany,  N.  Y. 

The  book  is  a  biography  in  a  better  sense  than  any  similar  work  that 
we  have  lately  read.  Its  strength  lies  in  the  fact  that  Mr.  Froude  has 
been  eminently  judicial  throughout.  His  intimate  friendship  with  and 
love  for  Carlyle  might  well  have  tempted  him  to  a  work  of  fulsome  ad- 
miration, with  the  dark,  unwholesome  side  of  Carlyle's  nature  untouched, 
or  at  least  glossed  over.  He  seems,  however,  to  have  caught  much  of  the 
rugged  honesty  of  his  subject,  and  has  pictured  Carlyle  just  as  Carlyle 
pictured  others,  with  all  his  faults  and  with  all  his  virtues  side  by  side. 
In  this  way  we  have  the  real  man  presented  to  us,  not  a  one-sided,  im- 
perfect creation  of  the  biographer. — Boston  Post. 

Air.  Froude's  skilful  hand  has  so  arranged  his  materials  that  they  bring, 
vividly  bring,  before  the  mind  of  the  reader  the  individual,  conjugal,  and 
literary  lives  of  both,  and  the  interest  in  Mrs.  Carlyle  will  hardly  be  sec- 
ond to  that  felt  for  her  illustrious  husband.  The  correspondence  of  their 
courtship  is  in  its  way  one  of  the  richest  series  of  letters  we  have  seen, 
while  the  freely  expressed  views  of  both  on  public  men  and  the  tenden- 
cies of  society  are  vivid  and  magnetic  in  their  effects  upon  the  minds  of 
their  readers. — Morning  Herald,  Rochester. 


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CAPiLYLE'S  REMINISCENCES. 


REMINISCENCES  BY  THOMAS  CARLYLE.  Edited  by 
J.  A.  Feoude.  With  Copious  Index.  4to,  Paper,  20  cents; 
12ino,  Cloth,  with  Thirteen  Portraits,  50  cents. 

These  papers  do  in  fact  throw  a  great  deal  of  light  on  Carlyle's  life  and  charac- 
ter, and  they  will  be  read  with  eagerness.  *  *  *  Few  of  his  most  fluisihed  and  ele- 
gant compositions  vibrate  with  such  intense  and  characteristic  energy  of  emotion 
and  conviction  as  marks  these  pages. — X  Y.  Sun. 

The  "Reminiscences"  consist  of  sketches,  and  they  give  ns  an  insight  into  the 
man's  labors  and  domesticity  such  as  the  world  has  rarely  enjoyed  respecting  any 
literary  man.  *  *  *  This  work  is  one  of  the  notable  events  in  literary  history.  It 
will  instruct  and  delight  the  studious  reader. — Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

They  display  Carlyle's  remarkable  power  of  depicting  character  by  a  few  rapid 
strokes,  and  they  are  full  of  interesting  information  as  to  the  circumstances  of  his 
own  life.  *  *  *  There  are  occasional  outbursts  of  pathetic  sentiment  which  it  would 
be  difficult  to  match  in  English  literature. — St.  James's  Gazette,  London. 

To  lovers  and  students  of  Carlyle  these  "  Reminiscences"  are  of  the  first  value. 
In  the  form  of  sketches  of  James  Carlyle,  Edward  Irving,  Jeffrey,  and  Jane  Welsh 
Carlyle — his  father  ;  his  friend  ;  his  literary  patron  ;  his  wife,  consoler,  and  guar- 
dian angel — we  have,  in  fact,  a  most  vivid  autobiography.  We  see  Carlyle  strug- 
gling with  poverty,  with  scepticism,  with  the  "mud-gods,"  with  unpopularity, 
with  dyspepsia,  until  he  triumphed  over  all  except  the  last.  *  *  *  As  for  style,  this 
work  gives  Carlyle  at  his  best. — Academy,  London. 

The  graphic  power  of  the  bdok  is  as  remarkable  as  in  any  of  Carlyle's  most 
famous  works. — Athenceuvi,  London. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  of  its  permanent  vitality. — Spectator,  London. 

If  to  unveil  the  inner  life  of  a  man  truly  great  hitherto  little  known  except 
through  his  books ;  to  paint  vivid  pictures  of  that  man's  family  and  associates — 
many  of  them  great;  to  tell  the  brave  struggle  which  he  held  with  poverty  and 
obscurity  up  and  on  to  fame  ;  to  set  down  in  the  bold  capitals  of  genius  the  very 
face,  gait,  and  action  of  his  times  as  they  touched  him  in  the  realm  where  he  be- 
longed— if  this  be  a  real  value  to  the  world,  then  Carlyle's  "Reminiscences"  have 
much  worth. — Literary  World,  Boston. 

Reading  these  interesting  posthumous  papers  of  a  great  thinker,  is  almost  like 
reading  In  Memoriavi  rolled  out  in  sinewy  prose,  its  fine  cadences  roughened  and 
set  to  the  wailing  music  of  the  loud  Highland  winter  blast,  but  softened  here 
and  there,  and  made  sadly  harmonious,  by  a  deep  human  sorrow  breathed  as 
through  the  very  flutes  of  Arcady. — Hartford  Times. 

This  book  is  very  piecions.  It  is  bright  with  the  significant  art  which  sharpens 
all  his  descriptions;  it  is  honest  as  the  utterances  of  his  own  soul  to  himself;  it 
is  such  a  work  as  a  man  can  write  but  once,  and  which  even  the  fullest  revelations 
of  personal  letters  can  hardly  equal  as  truthful  outpourings  of  the  heart.  *  *  *  The 
style  is  clear,  pure,  forcible  English  of  the  best  kind.  •  •  *  The  "Reminiscences" 
practically  cover  his  whole  life.  Hardly  a  notable  person  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact  is  unnoticed.  A  book  with  greater  variety  of  incidents  which  contribute  to 
the  unique  growth  of  a  single  life  has  hardly  ever  been  written. — Boston  Herald. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

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CONWAY'S  CARLYLE. 


THOMAS    CARLYLE.      By  M.  D.  Conway.      Illustrated. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

Mr.  Conway's  book  is  the  most  interesting  that  has  yet  been  called  forth  by 
the  death  of  Carlyle.  His  facilities  for  obtaining  a  just  impression  of  the  man, 
perhaps,  exceeded  those  of  any  one  else.  He  enjoyed  years  of  intimate  compan- 
ionship with  him  in  his  own  home,  and  the  character  of  his  mind  is  such  that  he 
is  intensely  appreciative  of  Carlyle's  peculiar  genius.  The  book  is,  to  those  who 
admire  Carlyle,  like  a  conversation  with  a  mutual  friend  who  was  closely  asso- 
ciated with  a  departed  friend.  The  style  is  specially  easy  and  fluent,  and  the 
well-known  facts  acquire  a  new  significance  when  presented  in  this  attractive 
form.  — Providence  Jotirnal. 

A  thoroughly  valuable  and  entertaining  volume.  *  *  *  Mr.  Conway  writes  with 
an  intimate  personal  knowledge  of  his  subject.  *  *  *  We  believe  he  has  come 
nearer  to  the  real  nature,  aims,  and  life-work  of  the  author  of  "  Sartor  Resartas" 
than  most  who  have  been  moved  by  Carlyle's  death  to  present  their  opinions  to 
the  world Boston  Traveller. 

He  certainly  succeeds  in  presenting  the  tender  side  of  Carlyle's  nature,  while 
not  ignoring  its  ruggedness.  He  lived  on  terms  of  close  intimacy  with  him,  ac- 
companied him  in  his  little  tours  about  the  country,  and  reports  his  conversations 
at  first  hand. — Portland  Transcript. 

We  have  no  sort  of  doubt  that  the  final  judgment  of  Carlyle  will  settle  down 
somewhere  around  the  points  of  the  portrait  here  presented,  and  that  Mr.  Con- 
way's appreciative  but  discriminating  estimate  may  be  taken  as  a  safe  guide 
thereto.  We  have  seen  no  sketch  of  Carlyle  which  gives  a  more  nearly  complete 
and  well-balanced  idea  of  the  man,  as  a  man,  and  his  place  in  the  intellectual  life 
of  his  time. — Congregationalist,  Boston. 

Mr.  Conway  enjoyed  exceptional  opportunities  for  knowing  Carlyle,  and  he  has 
made  an  exceptionally  pleasant  and  interesting  book. — Boston  Journal. 

An  admirable  sketch,  written  in  a  sympathetic  spirit,  and  containing  many  in- 
teresting notes  of  the  author's  intercourse  with  Carlyle.  It  ought  to  do  good 
service  by  correcting  the  one-sided  impression  which  has  been  produced  by  the 
"Reminiscences." — St.  James's  Oazette,  London. 

We  have  here  no  mere  compilation,  but  the  recollections  of  one  who  loved  Car- 
lyle, and  has  power  to  unveil  some  part  of  the  lovable  nature  that  was  in  the 
man.  The  glimpses  of  the  home  at  Chelsea  given  here  are  more  vivid  and  life- 
like than  anything  else  that  has  been  published  in  that  liind. — Spectator,  London. 

Few  men  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  so  much  of  Thomas  Carlyle  in  the  close 
intimacy  of  private  talk  and  association  asMr.  Moncure  Conway.  ***  The  wel- 
come result  is  the  transferring  to  paper  many  valuable  remarks  made  by  Carlyle 
in  conversation,  and  the  putting  on  record  many  incidents  and  traits  that  were 
otherwise  doomed  to  oblivion.  —  Westmiiister  Review,  London. 

We  get  much  of  the  inner  thought  of  the  great  man  here,  with  pictures  of  his 
every-day  existence  that  are  truly  inspiring.  It  is  an  admirable  free-hand  sketch, 
and  is  likely  to  be  accepted  as  authentic  and  reliable.— JSostoii  Commonwealth. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Habpeb  &  Bkotiters  irill  send  the  above  work  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  ang 
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WYLIE'S    CARLYLE. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE.  The  Man  and  his  Books.  Elustrated 
by  Personal  Reminiscences,  Table-Talk,  and  Anecdotes  of 
Himself  and  his  Friends.  By  W.  H.  Wylie.  4to,  Paper, 
20  cents. 

There  is  much  in  Mr.  Wylie's  volume  that  we  have  foand  a  welcome  reminder 
of  what  was  best  in  Carlyle. — Spectator,  London. 

Coutaius  a  really  graphic  account  of  Carlyle's  life  at  Craigenputtock  and  his 
correspondence  with  Goethe;  and  the  best  estimate  we  have  yet  seen  of  the  sig- 
nal historical  service  done  by  Carlyle  in  rehabilitating  the  defaced  image  of  Crom- 
well.— Acadeviy,  London. 

If  this  book  is  to  be  taken  as  an  example  of  the  kind  of  work  we  are  to  expect 
in  the  biographies  of  Carlyle,  Carlyle  will  have  been,  on  the  whole,  more  fortunate 
than  his  fellow  victims.  Mr.  Wylie's  book  is  really  a  thoughtful  and  remarkably 
accurate  performance.— 4 f/ie»fe?«m,  London. 

He  has  got  together  most  of  the  facts  of  Carlyle's  life,  and  has  exposed  them  in 
a  very  readable  piece  of  literary  work.  *  *  *  This  book  gives,  on  the  whole,  a  very 
fair  and  sufficient  account  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  life.— Pa^Z  Mall  Btidgct,  London. 

A  timely  volume  of  reminiscences,  table-talk,  and  anecdotes  of  the  sage  and 
his  friends.  It  is  a  very  interesting  sketch  of  Carlyle's  life  and  v/ovIl.— Montreal 
Witiiess. 

A  valuable  contribution  to  literature. — Brooklyn  Times. 

A  remarkable  compilation  of  facts  concernihg  Carlyle.  *  *  *  The  author  has  been 
indefatigable  in  collecting  material,  and  not  a  fact  is  lost.  An  acquaintance  with 
Carlyle  gives  him  opportunity  to  put  in  numerous  little  asides,  and  to  give  some 
conversations  as  they  fell  from  the  mouth  of  the  saf^e— Saturday  Evening  Gazette, 
Boston. 

The  narrative  is  rendered  attractive,  as  well  as  instructive,  by  the  happy  min- 
gling of  personal  incident,  anecdote,  and  table-talk  with  the  ordinary  biographical 
data.— iVew  England  Methodist,  Boston. 

Contains  a  great  deal  of  personal  and  literary  information  regarding  Carlyle — 
Philadelphia  Xews. 

A  book  that  every  lover  of  Carlyle  should  obtain — Home  Farm,  Augusta,  Me. 

Will  be  read  with  much  interest. — Portland  Press. 

A  most  interesting  hoo^.— Brooklyn  Union  and  Argus. 

This  work  was  prepared  before  the  death  of  its  distinguished  subject,  and  not 
written  hastily  since  that  event.  It  abounds  in  personal  recollections,  and  is  per- 
haps the  best  description  of  the  famous  Scotchman  at  present  to  be  h&d.— Chris- 
tian Intelligencer,  N.  Y. 

A  Boswellian  collection  from  Carlyle's  own  lips,  from  reports,  letters  of  his 
friends,  and  from  the  public  press,  of  the  incidents  of  his  life  and  his  notable 
words.  It  presents  the  rough,  self-willed,  extravagant,  powerful  man  in  a  grateful 
light. — Zion's  Herald,  Boston. 

An  admirable  study  of  a  man  who  made  his  impression  on  the  age.— LxUheran 
Observer,  Boston. 

A  very  entertaining, work. — Chicago  JournaL 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

t»~  Habpkb  &  Bbothkeb  will  send  the  above  work  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


ENGLISH  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

EDITED   BY  JOHN  MORLEY. 


The  following  volumes  are  now  ready: 

JOHNSON Leslie  Stkphbn. 

GIBBON J.  C.  M0EI8ON. 

SCOTT R.  H.  Button. 

SHELLEY J.  A.  Svmonds. 

HUME T.H.  Huxley. 

GOLDSMITH William  Black. 

DEFOE William  Minto. 

BURNS J.  0.  Shaibp. 

SPENSER The  Dean  of  St.  Paul's. 

THACKERAY. Anthony   Tkollopk. 

BURKE JOUN    MOKLEY. 

MILTON Mark  Pattison. 

HAWTHORNE Henbt  James,  Jr. 

SOUTHEY E.  DowDKN. 

CHAUCER A.  W.Ward. 

BUN YAN J.  A.  Froude. 

COWPER GoLDwiN  Smith. 

POPE Leslie  Stephen. 

BYRON John  Niohol. 

LOCKE Thomas  Fowler. 

WORDSWORTH F.  Myers. 

DRYDEN G.  Saintsbury. 

LANDOR Sidney  Colvin. 

DE  QUINCEY Davip  Masson. 

LAMB Alfrkd  Aingee. 

BENTLEY R.  C.  Jebu. 

DICKENS A.  W.  Ward. 

GRAY E.  W.  G0S8E. 

SWIFT Leslie  Stephen. 

STERNE H.  D.  Traill. 

MAC  AULA  Y J.  Cotter  Morison. 

12mo,  Cloth,  75  cents  per  volume. 


IN  PREPARATION: 
ADAM  SMITH Lkonaed  H.  Coubimit. 

Others  will  he  announced. 


PtiBLisHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

l^~  Harper  &  Brothers  will  send  any  of  the  above  work*  by  mail,  poitoft 
prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  reetipt  (if  the  price. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


mv  3      1936 


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NOV  3    Mf^ 


^C'D  LD-lRfi 


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!\PR  0519^5 


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Form  L-9-15m-7,'32 


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3  1158  01016  9109 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  366  915 


